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"I am apparently less tender-hearted than you," she said sardonically. "I shall, if I think fit, deal with Prettyman in person." The subject was dropped, and Lavendar rose to leave the room, but Mrs. de Tracy detained him. "The Admiral's niece, Mrs. David Loring, is my guest at present," she said. "It happens that she has crossed the river to Wittisham and is paying a visit to Prettyman.
"I'll wear my black dress, and her eyes may remain in her head," Robinette laughed. "And what about Mark's eyes? Wouldn't you like them to drop out?" the boy asked mischievously. "He's come back by the afternoon train while you were away at Wittisham." "Oh, has he?" Robinette said, and Carnaby stared so hard at her, that to her intense annoyance she blushed hotly.
Lavendar, ma'am," said Bates, "Mr. Lavendar and Mrs. Loring they went out in the boat after tea. Mr. Lavendar asked William for the key, and William he went down and got out the oars and rudder, ma'am." "Does William know where they went?" asked Mrs. de Tracy in high displeasure. "Was it to Wittisham?" "No, ma'am, William says they went down stream.
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."
I can smell it now! that I am glad to be the first to send you pleasant news. "Sincerely yours, "ROBINETTA LORING." Lavendar's blunt refusal, except under certain conditions, to announce to Mrs. Prettyman her coming ejection from the cottage at Wittisham, was unprofessional enough, as he himself felt; but it was final and categorical.
At Wittisham several of the little houses had crept down very close to the river. Mrs. Prettyman's cottage was just like a hive made for the habitation of some gigantic bee; its pointed roof covered with deep, close-cut thatch the colour of a donkey's hide.
So arguing, Mrs. de Tracy soon brought herself to a state of determination bordering on a sort of mania. She was old, and in exaggerated harshness her life was retreating as it were into its last stronghold, at bay. As good as her word, for she had vowed she would warn Mrs. Prettyman herself, and she was never one to procrastinate, the lady of the Manor proceeded to plan her visit to Wittisham.
Robinette and Lavendar entered quietly, but nothing in the gravity of their faces struck Mrs. de Tracy as strange. "I have a disturbing piece of news to give you," Mark began, clearing his throat. "Mrs. Prettyman died last night in her cottage at Wittisham." The erect figure in the widow's weeds remained motionless.
But though its Wittisham neighbours often said to summer trippers, "I wish you could have seen it in blossom!" the Plum Tree did not repine, because of the secrets the thousand, thousand secrets it held under its leaves. "The blossoms were but a promise," it thought, "and soon everybody will see the meaning of them."
"An artist," he continued, "Waller, R. A. you know the name?" "I do not," interpolated Mrs. de Tracy grimly. "Nevertheless, a well known painter," persisted Mark, "and one, as it happens, of the orchard scenery of this part of England. He has known Wittisham for a long time, and only last year he made a success with the painting of a plum tree which grows in front of one of the cottages.
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