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 300 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 302 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 303 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 304 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, 306 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 308 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.