that there axe," said the man. "It be full heavy for one o' your age.
But there! you zailor-men be that handy! 'Tis your trade, so to
speak!"
"Quite right, Jones, it is!" replied Carnaby. "Good-afternoon and
thank you for the use of the grindstone." He was already planning
where he would hide the axe, for he had precise ideas about everything
and left nothing to chance.
Carnaby went to bed that night at his usual hour. His profession had
already accustomed him to awaking at odd intervals, and he had more
than the ordinary boy's knowledge of moon and tide, night and dawn.
When he slipped out of bed after a few hours of sound sleep, he put on
a flannel shirt and trousers and a broad belt, and then, carrying his
boots in his hand, crept out of his room and through the sleeping
house. He would much rather have climbed out of the window, in a
manner more worthy of such an adventure, but his return in that
fashion might offer dangers in daylight. So he was content with an
unfrequented garden door which he could leave on the latch.
The moon, which had been young when she lighted the lovers in the
mud-bank adventure, was now a more experienced orb and shed a useful
light. Carnaby intended to cross the river in a small tub which was
propelled by a single oar worked at the stern, the rower standing.
This craft was intended for pottering about the shore; to cross the
river in it was the dangerous feat of a skilled waterman, but Carnaby
had a knack of his own with every floating thing. As he balanced
himself in the rocking tub, bare-headed, bare-necked, bare-armed,
paddling with the grace and ease of strength and training, he looked
a man, but a man young with the youth of the gods. The moon shone in
his keen grey eyes and made them sparkle. A cold sea-wind blew up the
river, but he did not feel its chill, for blood hot with adventure
raced in his veins.
Wittisham was in profound darkness when he landed, and the moon having
gone behind a bank of cloud, he had to grope his way to Mrs.
Prettyman's cottage, shouldering the axe. The isolated position of the
house alone made the adventure possible, he reflected; he could not
have cut down a tree in the hearing of neighbours, and as to old
Elizabeth herself, he hoped she was deaf. Most old women were, he
reflected, except unfortunately his grandmother!
Soon he was entering the little garden and sniffing the scent of
blossom, which was very strong in the night air. He could see the dim
outline of the plum tree, and just as he wanted light, the moon came
out and shone upon its whiteness, giving a sort of spiritual beauty
to the flowering thing that was very exquisite.
"What price, Waller R. A. now?" thought Carnaby impishly. "The plum
tree in moonlight! eh? Wouldn't he give his eyes to see it! But he
won't! Not if I know it!" The boy was as blind to the tree's beauty as
his grandmother had been, but he had scientific ideas how to cut it
down, for he had watched the felling of many a tree.
First, standing on a lower branch, you lopped off all the side shoots
as high as you could reach. This made the trunk easy to deal with, and
its fall less heavy, and Carnaby set to work.
"She goes through them all as slick as butter!" he said to himself in
high satisfaction. The axe had assumed a personality to him and was
"she," not "it." "She makes no more noise than a pair of scissors
cutting flowers; not half so much!" he said proudly. Branch after
branch fell down and lay about the tree like the discarded garments of
a bathing nymph. The petals fell upon Carnaby's face, upon his hair
and shoulders; he was a white figure as he toiled. Frightened birds
and bats flew about, but he did not notice them. His only care was the
cottage itself and its inmate. If _she_ should awake! But the little
habitation, shrouded in thatch and deep in shadow, was dark and silent
as the grave.
"She must be sound asleep and deaf," thought the boy. "Yes, very
deaf." He paused. The first stage in his task was accomplished.
Shivering and naked, one absurd tuft of blossom and leaves at the
tip--the murdered tree now stood in the moonlight, imploring the _coup
de grâce_ which should end its shame.
"Jolly well done," said the murderer complacently. He stretched his
arms, looked at the palms of his hands to see if they had blistered,
and addressed himself to the second part of his business. Thud! thud!
went the axe on the trunk of the tree, and the sweat broke out all
over Carnaby's skin, not with exertion but with nervous terror.
"If that doesn't wake the dead!" he thought--but there was no awaking
in the cottage. Its tiny window blinked in the moonlight, and Carnaby
thought he heard the drowsy quack of a duck in an out-house. But the
danger passed. Thud! went the axe again. The slim severed shaft of the
tree was poised a moment, motionless, erect before it fell. Then it
subsided gently among its broken and trodden boughs, and Carnaby's
task was done.
XXII
CONSEQUENCES
Early that morning before the sun had risen, when the light was still
grey in the coming dawn, Robinette was awakened by a bird that called
out from a tree close to her open window, every note like the striking
of a golden bell. She jumped up and looked out, but the little singer,
silenced, had flown away. Instead, she caught sight of a figure
stealing across the lawn towards the side door which opened from the
library. Even in the dim light she could distinguish that it was
Carnaby, Carnaby with something in his hand. What he carried she could
not quite make out, but the sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled
up above his elbows in a fatally business-like way, and he walked with
an air of stealth.
"What mischief can that boy have been up to at this time of day?"
thought Robinette as she lay down again, but she was too sleepy to
wonder long.
She forgot all about it until she saw Carnaby at the breakfast table
some hours later. Sometimes the gloom of that meal--never a favorite
or convivial one in the English household, and most certainly neither
at Stoke Revel--would be enlivened by some of the boy's pranks. He
would pass over to the sideboard, pepper-pot slyly in hand, and
Rupert, whose meal at this hour consisted of grape-nuts and cream,
would unaccountably sneeze and snuffle over his plate.
"Bless it, Bobs!" his tormentor would exclaim tenderly. "Is it
catching cold? Poor old Kitchener! Hi! _Kitch!_ _Kitch!_" (like a
violent sneeze) and the outraged Rupert would forget grape-nuts and
pepper alike in a fit of impotent fury. But this morning the dog fed
in peace and Carnaby never glanced at him or his basin. Robinette,
looking at the boy and remembering where she had seen him last,
noticed that he was rather silent, that his cheeks were redder than
common, and that under his eyes were lines of fatigue not usually
there.
"What were you doing on the lawn at four o'clock this morning?" she
began, but checked herself, suddenly thinking that if Carnaby had been
up to mischief she must not allude to it before his grandmother.
No one had heard her. The meal dragged on. Robinette and Lavendar
talked little. Miss Smeardon was preoccupied with the sufferings and
the moods of Rupert. Mrs. de Tracy alone seemed in better spirits than
usual; she was talkative and even balmy.
"The work at the spinney begins to-day," she observed complacently,
addressing herself to Lavendar and alluding to the rooting up of an
old copse and the planting of a new one--an improvement she had long
planned, though hitherto in vain. "The young trees have arrived."
"But where is the money to come from?" enquired Carnaby suddenly, in
a sepulchral tone. (His voice was at the disagreeable breaking stage,
an agony and a shame to himself and always a surprise to others.) His
grandmother stared: the others, too, looked in astonishment at the
boy's red face.
"I thought it had all been explained to you, Carnaby," said Mrs. de
Tracy, "but you take so little interest in the estate that I suppose
what you have been told went in at one ear and out at the other, as
usual! It is the sale of land at Wittisham which makes these
improvements possible, advantages drawn from a painful necessity," and
the iron woman almost sighed.
"There won't be any sale of land at Wittisham,--at least, not of Mrs.
Prettyman's cottage," said Carnaby abruptly.
"It is practically settled. The transfers only remain to be signed;
you know that, Carnaby," said Lavendar curtly. He did not wish the
vexed question to be raised again at a meal.
"It _was_ practically settled--but it's all off now," said the boy,
looking hard at his grandmother. "Waller R. A. won't want the place
any more. The bloomin' plum tree's gone--cut down. The bargain's off,
and old Mrs. Prettyman can stay on in her cottage as long as she
likes!"
There was a freezing silence, broken only by the stertorous breathing
of Rupert on Miss Smeardon's lap.
"Repeat, please, what you have just said, Carnaby," said his
grandmother with dangerous calmness, "and speak distinctly."
"I said that the cottage at Wittisham won't be sold because the plum
tree's gone," repeated Carnaby doggedly. "It's been cut down."
"How do you know?"
"I've seen it." Carnaby raised his eyes. "I cut it down myself," he
added, "this morning before daylight."
"Who put such a thing into your head?" Mrs. de Tracy's words were ice:
her glance of suspicion at Robinette, like the cold thrust of steel.
"Who told you to cut the plum tree down?"
"My conscience!" was Carnaby's unexpected reply. He was as red as
fire, but his glance did not falter. Mrs. de Tracy rose. Not a muscle
of her face had moved.
"Whatever your action has been, Carnaby," she said with dignity--"whether
foolish and disgraceful, or criminal and dangerous, it cannot be
discussed here. You will follow me at once to the library, and
presently I may send for Mark. A lawyer's advice will probably be
necessary," she added grimly.
Carnaby said not a word. He opened the door for his grandmother and
followed her out; but as he passed Robinette, he looked at her
earnestly, half expecting her applause; for one of the motives in his
boyish mind had certainly been to please her--to shine in her eyes as
the doer of bold deeds and to avenge her nurse's wrongs. And all that
he had managed was to make her cry!
For Robinette had put her elbows on the table and had covered her eyes
with her hands. As he left the room, Carnaby could hear her
exclamation:--
"To cut down that tree! That beautiful, beautiful, fruitful thing! O!
how could anyone do it?"
So this was justice; this was all he got for his pains! How
unaccountable women were!
Lavendar awaited some time his summons to join Mrs. de Tracy and her
grandson in what seemed to him must be a portentous interview enough,
trying meanwhile somewhat unsuccessfully to console Mrs. Loring for
the destruction of the plum tree, and exchanging with her somewhat
awe-struck comments on the scene they had both just witnessed. No
summons came, however; but half an hour later, he came across Carnaby
alone, and an interview promptly ensued. He wanted to plumb the depth
of the boy-mind and to learn exactly what motives had prompted
Carnaby to this sudden and startling action in the matter of the plum
tree.
"Had you a bad quarter of an hour with your grandmother?" was his
first question. Carnaby, he thought, looked subdued, and not much
wonder.
The boy hesitated.
"Not so bad as I expected," was his answer. "The old lady was
wonderfully decent, for her. She gave me a talking to, of course."
"I should hope so!" interpolated Lavendar drily.
"She jawed away about our poverty," continued Carnaby. "She's got
that on the brain, as you know. She said that this loss of the
money--Waller R. A.'s money, she means, of course--is an awful blow.
She _said_ it was, but it seemed to me--" Carnaby paused, looking
extremely puzzled.
"It seemed to you--?" prompted Lavendar encouragingly.
"That she wasn't so awfully cut up, after all," said Carnaby. "She
seemed putting it on, if you know what I mean." Lavendar pricked up
his ears. Mrs. de Tracy's intense reluctance to sell the land recurred
to him in a flash. To get her consent had been like drawing a tooth,
like taking her life-blood drop by drop. Could it be that she was not
very sorry after all that the scheme had fallen through, secretly
glad, indeed? It was conceivable that this was Mrs. de Tracy's view,
but her grandson's motive was still obscure.
"Why did you do it, Carnaby?" Lavendar asked with kindness and gravity
both in his voice. "You have committed a very mischievous action, you
know, one that would have borne a harsher name had the transfers been
signed and had the plum tree changed hands."
"But then I shouldn't have done it--you--you juggins, Mark!" cried the
boy. "I've no earthly grudge against Waller R. A. If he'd actually
bought the tree, it would have been too late, and his beastly
money--"
"You need the money, you know," remarked Lavendar. "Remember that, my
young friend!"
"It would have been dirty money!" said Carnaby, with a sudden
flash that lit up his rather heavy face with a new expression.
"You and Cousin Robin have been jolly polite when you thought I was
listening, but _I_ know what you really thought, and the kind of
things you were saying to one another about this business! You
thought it beastly mean to take the cottage away from old Lizzie
in the way it was being done, and sheer robbery to deprive her of
the plum tree without paying her for it. I quite agreed with you
there, and if I felt like that, do you think I could sit still and
let the money come in to Stoke Revel--money that had been got in
such a way? What do you take me for?" Lavendar was silent, looking
at the boy in surprise. "Oh," continued Carnaby, "how I wish I were
of age! Then I could show Cousin Robin, perhaps, what an English
landlord can be! I mean that he can be a friend to his tenants, and
kind and generous as well as just. As it is, Cousin Robin will go
back to America and tell her friends what selfish brutes we are
over here, and how jolly glad she was to get away!"
"Mrs. Loring will carry no tales, I am sure," said Lavendar. "But tell
me, my dear fellow, did you imagine that Mrs. Prettyman would be a
gainer by your action?"
"Well, why not?" answered the boy. "Didn't you tell me yourself that
Waller R. A. wouldn't look at the cottage without the tree? What's to
prevent the old woman living on where she is? Do you think there'll be
a rush of new tenants for that precious old hovel? Go on! You know
better than that!"
"But the tree, Carnaby, the plum tree!" cried Lavendar. "My young
Goth, hadn't you a moment's compunction? That beautiful, flowering
thing, as your cousin called it; could you destroy it without a
pang?"
"The _tree_?" echoed Carnaby with unmeasured scorn. "What's a tree?
It's just a tree, isn't it?"
"A primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more!"
quoted Mark, despairingly.
"Well; and what more did he expect of a primrose, whoever the Johnny
was?" asked the contemptuous Carnaby.
"At any rate," commented Lavendar, "it isn't necessary to search as
far as Peter Bell for an analogy for your character, my young friend!
You are your grandmother's grandson after all!"
"In some ways I suppose I can't help being," answered Carnaby soberly,
"but not in all," he added, and suddenly turning red he fumbled in his
pocket and produced a coin which he held out to Lavendar. "It's only
ten bob," he said apologetically, "and I wish it was a jolly sight
more! But please give it to old Mrs. Prettyman to make up a bit for
the loss of her plums. Daresay I'll manage some more by and by.
Anyway, I'll make it up to her when I come of age.--I'm nearly sixteen
already, you know. Be sure you tell her that!"
But Lavendar refused to take the money.
"Mrs. Prettyman is provided for, my boy," he said. "She has become
your cousin's especial care. You need have no fear about that. The
poor old woman is very happy and will have a cottage more suited for
her rheumatism and her general feebleness than the present one. But I
think your cousin will understand your motives and believe that you
meant well by old Lizzie in your little piece of midnight madness."
"Though I was a bit rough on the plum tree!" said Carnaby, with a
broad smile.
"You think it's a laughing matter?" Lavendar asked indignantly. "I
wish you had my father to deal with, and Waller R. A.! It's all very
well for you."
But Carnaby only laughed. The blood was still hot in his veins, and
the joy of his night's adventure. Mark told him that he and Mrs.
Loring were crossing the river at once to see for themselves the
extent of his mischief and what effect it had had upon old Mrs.
Prettyman. Carnaby observed with diabolical meaning that as he had not
been invited to join the party, he would make himself scarce.
Gooseberries, he said, were very good fruit, but he wasn't fond of
them; so he lounged off with his hands in his pockets. Suddenly he
turned. "See here, old Mark! You'll speak a word for me with Cousin
Robin, won't you? It's hard on me to have her hate me when I was
trying to do my best to please her."
"She won't hate you; she couldn't hate anybody," said Lavendar
absently, watching first the door and then the window.
"You say that because you're in love with her! I've a couple of eyes
in my head, stupid as you all think me. You can deny it all you like,
but you won't convince me!"
"I shan't deny it, Carnaby. I am so much in love with her at this
moment that the room is whirling round and round and I can see two of
you!"
"Poor old Mark! Do you think she'll take you on?"
"Can't say, Carnaby!"
"You're a lucky beggar if she does; that's my opinion!" said the boy.
"Put it as strong as you like, Carnaby," Lavendar answered. "You can't
exaggerate my feelings on that subject!"
"If you hadn't fifteen years' start of me I'd give you a run for your
money!" exclaimed Carnaby with a daring look.
XXIII
DEATH AND LIFE
While these incidents were taking place at the Manor House, village
life at Wittisham had been stirring for hours. Thin blue threads of
smoke were rising from the other cottages into the windless air: only
from Nurse Prettyman's there was none. Duckie in the out-house quacked
and gabbled as she had quacked and gabbled since the light began, yet
no one came to let her out and feed her. The halfpenny jug of milk had
been placed on the doorstep long ago, but Mrs. Prettyman had not yet
opened the door to take it in.
Outside in the garden, where the plum tree stood yesterday, there was
now only a stump, hacked and denuded, and round about it a ruin of
broken branches, leaves, and scattered blossoms. Over the wreck the
bees were busy still, taking what they could of the honey that
remained; and in the air was the strong odour of juicy green wood and
torn bark.
The children who brought the milk were the first to discover what had
happened, and very soon the news spread amongst the other cottagers.
Then came two neighbours to the scene, wondering and exclaiming. They
went to the door, but Mrs. Prettyman did not answer their knock or
their calling. Mrs. Darke looked in through the tiny window.
"She be sleepin' that peaceful in 'er bed in there," she said, "it 'ud
be a shame to wake 'er. She's deaf now, and belike she never 'eard the
tree come down, 'ooever's done it. But I'll go and see after Duckie:
she's makin' noise enough to rouse 'er, anyway."
Then Duckie was released and fed and departed to gabble her wrongs to
the other white ducks that were preening themselves amongst the deep
green grass of the adjacent orchard.
"You can 'ear that bird a mile away--she's never done talking!" said
Mrs. Darke as the indignant gabble grew fainter in the distance. "But
'ere's my old man a-come to look at the plum tree. Wonder what he'll
say to it? This be a queer job, sure enough!"
Old Darke, on two sticks, hobbled towards the scene of desolation with
grunts of mingled satisfaction and dismay. 'Twas a rare sensation,
though a pity, to be sure!
Mrs. Darke stood by the well at the turn of the road, keeping a sharp
eye on the cottage while she gossiped with the neighbour who was
filling her pitcher. She did not want to miss the sight of Mrs.
Prettyman's face when she opened her door and found out what had
happened.
"She be sleepin' too long; I'll go and waken her in a minute," said
Mrs. Darke. "'Tis but right she should be told what's come to 'er
tree, poor thing."
Then a beggar woman selling bootlaces came along the shore of the
river; she mounted the cottage steps and the gossips watched her
trailing up the pathway in her loose old shoes, and knocking at the
door. She waited for a few minutes: there was no answer, so she turned
away resignedly and trailed off along the sun-lit lane, in-shore,
leaving the garden gate swinging to and fro.
"There's summat the matter!" Mrs. Darke had just whispered with
evident enjoyment, when some one else was seen approaching the cottage
from the direction of the pier. It was the young lady from the Manor,
this time. She wore a white dress and a green scarf, and her face was
tinted with colour. She looked like a young blossoming tree herself,
all lacy white and pale green, a strange morning vision in a
work-a-day world! Robinette ran quickly up the pathway and knocked at
the door, but there was no answer to her knock. She called out in her
clear voice:--
"Good morning, Nurse! Good morning! Aren't you ready to let me in?
It's quite late!" But there was no answer to her call. She was just
trying to open the door, which seemed to be locked, when a gentleman
came up from the boat and followed her to the cottage. That, the women
who were watching her thought quite natural, for surely such a young
lady would be followed by a lover wherever she went! Indeed, Mrs.
Darke said so.
"'Tis in that there kind," she observed philosophically, "like the
cuckoo and the bird that follows; never sees one wi'out the other!"
"'Tis quite that way, Mrs. Darke," agreed the neighbour, approvingly.
Robinette turned a white face to Lavendar as he approached.
"Nurse won't answer, and I can't get in!" she cried. "Something must
have happened. I--I'm afraid to go in alone. The door is locked,
too."
"It's not locked," said Lavendar, and exerting a little strength, he
pushed it open and gave a quick glance inside. "I'll go in first," he
said gently. "Wait here."
He came again to the threshold in a few minutes, a peculiar expression
on his face which somehow seemed to tell Robinette what had happened.
"Come in, Mrs. Robin," he said very gravely and gently. "You need not
be afraid."
Robinette instinctively held out her hand to him and they entered the
little room together.
She need not have feared for the old woman's distress over the ruined
plum tree, for nothing would ever grieve Nurse Prettyman again. Just
as she had lain down the night before, she lay upon her bed now,
having passed away in her sleep. "And they that encounter Death in
sleep," says the old writer, "go forth to meet him with desire." The
aged face was turned slightly upwards and wore a look of contentment
and repose that made life seem almost gaudy; a cheap thing to compare
with this attainment....
Robinette came out of the cottage a little later, leaving the
neighbours who had gathered in the room to their familiar and not
uncongenial duties. She went into the garden, where Mark Lavendar
awaited her. He longed to try to comfort her; indeed, his whole heart
ran out to her in a warmth and passion that astounded him; but her
pale face, stained with weeping, warned him to keep silence yet a
little while.
"I just came for one branch of the blossom," Robinette said, "if it is
not all withered. Yes, this is quite fresh still." She took a little
spray he had found for her and stood holding it as she spoke. "Only
yesterday it was all so lovely! Oh! Mr. Lavendar, I needn't cry for my
old Nurse, I'm sure! How should I, after seeing her face? She had come
to the end of her long life, and she was very tired, and now all that
is forgotten, and she will never have a moment of vexation about her
tree. I don't know why I should cry for her; but oh, how could
Carnaby destroy that beautiful thing!"