Kitabı oku: «Robinetta», sayfa 11

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!”

“It was a genuine though mistaken act of conscience! You must not be too hard on Carnaby!” pleaded Lavendar. “He would not touch the money that was to come from the sale of Mrs. Prettyman’s cottage under the circumstances, so it seemed best to him that the sale should not take place, and he prevented it in the directest and simplest way that occurred to him. It’s like some of the things that men have done to please God, Mrs. Robin,” Mark added, smiling, “and thought they were doing it, too! But Carnaby only wanted to please you!”

“To please me!” exclaimed Robinette, looking round her at the ruin before them. “Oh dear!” she sighed, “how confusing the world is, at times! I am just going to take this snowy branch and lay it on Nurse’s pillow. She so loved her tree! See; it’s quite fresh and beautiful, and the dew still upon it, just like tears!”

“That seemed just right,” said Robinette softly as she came out into the sunshine again, a few minutes later. “I laid the blossoms in her kind old tired hands, the hands that have known so much work and so many pains. It is over, and after all, her new home is better than any I could have found for her!”

The two walked slowly down the little garden on their way to the gate. As they passed, old Mr. Darke, who had hobbled around again to have another look at the fallen tree, addressed Lavendar solemnly.

“Best tree in Wittisham ’e was, sir,” touching the ruin of the branches as he spoke. “’Ooever could ha’ thought o’ sich a piece of wickedness as to cut ’im down? Murder, I calls it! ’Tis well as Mrs. Prettyman be gone to ’er rest wi’out knowledge of it; ’twould ’ave broken her old ’eart, for certain sure!”

“It nearly breaks mine to see it now, Mr. Darke!” said Robinette in a trembling voice. But the old labourer bent down, moving his creaking joints with difficulty and steadying himself upon his sticks till he could touch the stump of the tree with his rough but skilful hands. He pushed away the long grass that grew about the roots and looked up at Robinette with a wise old smile.

“’Tisn’t dead and done for yet, Missy, never fear!” he said. “Give ’im time; give ’im time! ’E’s cut above the graft–see! ’E’ll grow and shoot and bear blossom and fruit same as ever ’e did, given time. See to the fine stock of ’im; firm as a rock in the good ground! And the roots, they be sound and fresh. ’E’ll grow again, Missy; never you cry!”

Robinette looked so beautiful as she lifted her luminous eyes and parted lips to old Darke, and then turned to him with a gesture of hope and joy, that again Lavendar could hardly keep from avowing his love; but the remembrance of the old nurse’s still shape in the little cottage hushed the words that trembled on his lips.