"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.
The disagreeable duty of announcing Mrs. Prettyman's death to the lady of the Manor now lay before Lavendar and his companion, and the thought of it weighed upon their spirits as they crossed the river. Carnaby also must be told. How would he take it? Robinette, still under the shock of the plum tree's undoing, expected perhaps some further exhibition of youthful callousness, but Lavendar knew better.
In their concern and sorrow, the young couple had forgotten all minor matters such as meals, and luncheon had long been over when they reached the house. They could see Mrs. de Tracy's figure in the drawing room as they passed the windows, occupying exactly her usual seat in her usual attitude. It was her hour for reading and disapproving of the daily paper.
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. Perhaps the old hand that lowered the newspaper trembled somewhat, so that its diamonds quivered a little more than usual.