CHAPTER XL

A GREAT FEAR

Kate was among the felled timber at Brimpts, skipping about the logs, stooping, then rising again, and withal singing merrily, when Jan and Rose, having put up the horse at Dart-meet, came up the valley to join her.

The peeled trunks lay white as bones on the surface of the moor, and a fresh and stimulating odour was exhaled from them. The bark was piled up in stacks at intervals. The whortleberry was flowering in the spring sun. The heather was still dead. Horns of ferns, brown, and curled like pastoral staves, stood up between the trunks.

After the first greetings had been exchanged, Rose asked Kitty, “What in the world are you doing here’bobbing about? In search of long cripples (vipers)?”

“No; I do not want them. I have started some basking in the hot sun, but they slip away at once and do no harm. I am counting the rings on the trees.”

“What for?”

“To learn their age.”

“Who cares how old the trees are?”

“I do; and thus one can find out in what years the trees grew fast, and which summers were wet and cold.”

“Really, Kitty, you are going silly.”

“It is interesting,” pursued Kate; “and then, Rose, I do not altogether believe in the rings telling the age truly. I think the oaks are much older than they pretend to be.”

“Like old maids?” suggested Rose.

“Yes, Rose; after a certain age they cease to grow’cease to swell, they just live on as they were, or go back in their hearts, then they make no rings. The rings tell you for how many years they went on expanding, but say nothing about those when they were at a standstill. Then, look here: the rings are on one side much thicker than on the other, and that is because of a cold and stormy wind. They thicken their bark against the wind, just as I might put on a shawl.”

“Oh,’by the way’touching a shawl”’

But Kate was too eager and interested in her subject to bear interruption.

“I have the oddest and most wonderful thing to show you, Rose. You do not care about the rings, but this you will be truly pleased to see.”

“What is that?”

“Follow me.”

Kate skipped among the prostrate oaks till she reached one large trunk. As she skipped, she sang merrily’

“’All in the wood there grew a fine tree.‘”

“What song is that, Kate?” asked Rose.

“It is one that the head woodcutter taught me.

’All in the wood there grew a fine tree, The finest tree that ever you might see, And the green leaves flourished around.‘

All on this tree there grew a fine bough, and all on this bough there grew a fine twig. Then it goes on to tell how on this twig there was a fine nest, and how in this nest there was a fine bird, the finest bird that ever you did see; and on this bird there grew a fine feather, and out of the feather was made a fine bed, and on this fine bed was laid a fine babe, and out of the babe there grew a fine man, and the man put an acorn into the earth, and out of the acorn there grew a fine tree, and the tree was of the acorn, and the acorn of the man, and the man was from the babe, and the babe was on the bed, and the bed was of the feather, and the feather of the bird, and the bird was in the nest, and the nest was on the twig, and the twig was on the bough, and the bough was on the tree, and the tree was in the wood.

’And the green leaves flourished around’around’around, And the green leaves flourished around.‘”

“What nonsense, Kate!”

“It is not nonsense. There is a great deal in it. The song goes on without an end, always the same; just as at the end of the psalm, ’As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.‘ See!’this is what I have to show you.”

She pointed to some lettering that ran round the white peeled trunk, brown as coffee; somewhat large and strained the characters seemed, and Rose was not able to decipher them, but she said’

“However came letters to be there, under the bark?”

“That is the great curiosity,” answered Kate. “Someone cut them in the bark with his knife when the tree was young, two hundred years ago. The tree has grown big since then, and has healed up its wounds, but still bears the scars; and it has drawn its bark round it, and for years upon years has hidden what was written from the eyes of man. Only now that the dear old oak is hewn down, and the bark stripped away, is the writing revealed which was cut on it two hundred years ago.”

“What are the words?”

“Listen’I have spelled them out.

’O Tree defying Time Witness bear That two loving Hearts 1643 Did meet here.‘

Is not this wonderful? The tree was trusted, and it has fulfilled its trust, and would have done so till it died. Two hundred years ago, two young lovers met here, and the youth cut this on the bark. Two hundred years after, it gives up its witness. If it had not been cut down, two hundred years hence it would have done the same.”

Rose looked at Jan, and took his hand and sighed.

“Jan, let us sit down on this tree. This touches me; does it not you, Jan?”

“What’your hand?”

“No, silly; I mean this about the lovers.”

Then Kate began to sing’

“‘All in the wood there grew a fine tree, The finest tree that ever you did see, And the green leaves flourished around.’”

Then Kate said, clapping her hands’

“Is there not a great deal in that song of the tree in the wood? I suppose in paradise that Adam stood by the tree of life and felt happy when he held Eve by the hand and looked into her eyes. If he could have written, he would have cut these same words in the bark of the tree of life. And years went by, and it was always and ever the same story: the young grew old, and then others came in their places, and loving hearts met, and again and again in an endless whirl, and an ever-returning tide, and a perpetual circling of the stars in heaven, and the new flowers coming after the old have died’‘As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.’”

Then Jan started up, drew his hand from Rose, and said’

“We have come for you, Kitty. As soon as the horse has had a feed, we must be off.”

“Is there such a terrible hurry?” asked Rose with a tone of reproach in her voice.

“We have no time to lose.”

“Lose, Jan?”

“To waste, I mean.”

“Waste, Jan?”

“I mean’bother it!’we must be off as soon as the horse is a bit rested. We have a long journey to take, up and down, and little trotting ground. We have come for Kitty. You must return with us,” looking at Kate. “There has been something”’

“Let me speak,” interrupted Rose, afraid lest Pooke should let out too much. “Kitty, your uncle and aunt have met with a great loss. The stores have been burnt, and Mrs. Zerah does nothing but sob and cry after you.”

“Auntie cry for me?”

“Yes. She will not be at rest till you return.”

“I’ll go at once,” said Kate, flushing with pleasure. “When did this happen?”

“Tuesday night.”

“That is the night we came here. Is my father at the Cellars?”

“I have not seen him. Now, Jan”’Pooke was about to speak. Rose stopped his mouth. “Leave me to speak. You are a blunderer.”

“But I know he passed us going to Coombe,” said Kate.

“Passed you’where?”

“On the hill. We were in the linhay.”

Rose held out a shawl.

“Kitty, is this yours?”

“Yes; it is. I lost it on my way here. Where did you find it?”

“In the linhay in Furze Park. I went there with our cow, Buttercup. The calf is taken from her. There I found it.”

“We turned into the field, and I remained a long time in the linhay,” said Kate.

“And your uncle?”

“Oh, he went back to the Cellars.”

“What, by the road?”

“No; by the waterside. I was tired, and the time was long, or I thought it was; so I folded my shawl to keep the prickles from my head,’there is so much furze there,’and I lay down and slept.”

“I found this also,” said Rose, extending a match-box. “I don’t understand what it is.”

“It is a lucifer-box. My uncle had it. He pulled a match across something, and it blazed up. I suppose he dropped it in the linhay, also, whilst getting the horse and cart out.”

“What! you had horse and cart there?”

“Yes.”

“And your uncle went back to the Cellars?”

“Yes; just before. Indeed, as we turned into the field, I heard my father go by; I heard him speak to Neddy. He always talks to the donkey as he goes along.”

“You did not speak to your father?”

“No. Uncle was impatient, and father was rattling along at a fine pace, and you know from that place it is all down hill to Coombe.”

“Your uncle returned to the Cellars after that; you are quite sure of it?”

“Yes; certain. He told me he had forgotten to lock up.”

“Why did he not go by the road?”

“I cannot tell’perhaps he thought the other way shortest.”

“It is not that. Was he long away?”

“I cannot tell. I fell asleep. Have you not anything to tell me of father? I know he went to Coombe.”

“I have told you’I have not seen him.”

“Where can he be?”

Neither answered that question.

Even into Jan’s dull brain there penetrated an idea that some mystery connected with Pasco Pepperill was involved’that it was singular that he, his wife, and niece should have all left the Cellars before the fire broke out, and that Pasco should have returned there secretly after having left. He said nothing. If he tried to think, his thoughts became entangled, and he saw nothing clearly. An uneasy feeling pervaded him, which he was unable to explain to himself.

During the first part of the journey back to the Cellars, Kate talked. She sat beside Jan Pooke. Rose was behind, keeping a ready ear to hear what was said, and interfere should she deem it expedient.

“Where can my father be?” asked Kitty.

As no answer was given to her query, she said further’

“It is very strange, and I cannot understand how he is not there. He must have been at Coombe just before the fire broke out. I know he passed along the road. Where are the donkey and cart?”

“They are at the Cellars,” answered Jan.

“Then my father must be there. He cannot be far off. He cannot get about easily, as he is so lame.”

“I suppose he must be somewhere,” was the wise observation of Pooke.

“Hasn’t my aunt seen him?”

“No, Kitty.”

“Nor anyone.”

Jan hesitated, and presently said’

“I did hear something about the parson having spoke with her, but I don’t know the rights of it.”

“He must be there. He cannot be far off. We shall see him when we arrive. I daresay he had some business that took him off; but if he heard of the fire, he would come back at once. He will be a loser by it as well as my uncle.”

“Folk say there will be no loss, as Mr. Pepperill insured so terrible heavy. They do tell that he has insured for two thousand pounds, and that only about fifty pounds worth of goods is burnt.”

Kate shrank together. Rose touched Pooke significantly to hold his tongue.

After that Kitty remained very silent. A feeling of unrest took possession of her, even of alarm, at some impending catastrophe. That her uncle had been in difficulty she knew. That he was in want of money to pay for the timber before he could realise on it, and to meet his dishonoured bill for the wool, she knew. A chill ran through her veins.

After a long period of silence Rose said to her’

“Kitty, is it true that you and the schoolmaster went to old Mr. Puddicombe about being engaged?”

“Yes,” answered the girl addressed.

“He took it as a mark of proper respect?”

“Yes.”

“Jan, dear,” said Rose, touching Pooke, “as soon as we get to Coombe, you and I will go and call on Mr. Puddicombe. It will please him. He was the first who heard about your engagement, Kitty?”

“Not quite that’we told Mr. Fielding.”

“Oh, the parson! But everyone respects Mr. Puddicombe _so_ much, that I think Jan and I will go to him first. You know, Kitty, we have settled it between us’I mean, Jan and I’on our way to Brimpts, and Mr. Puddicombe ought to know.”