“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 289 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?”