“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 294 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?”
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“A primrose by a river’s brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more!” |