CHAPTER NINE.

John Grange's journey to London was performed almost in silence, for as he sat back in the corner of the carriage, weak and terribly shaken by the scene through which he had pa.s.sed, Daniel Barnett sat opposite to him, wishing that they did not live in a civilised country, but somewhere among savages who would think no ill of one who rid himself of a useless, troublesome rival.

But after a time rage gave way to contempt. He felt that he had nothing to fear from the helpless object in question. Mary never looked more attractive than when she stood up there defending the poor blind fellow before him.

"If I could only get her to be as fond of me, and ready to stick up for me like that!" he thought; and he softly rubbed his hands together.

"And I will," he muttered. "She's very young, and it was quite natural.

She'll soon forget poor old blind Jack, and then--but we shall see.

Head-gardener at The Hollows, and James Ellis willing. I shall win, my lad, and step into the old man's shoes as well."

He parted from John Grange at the infirmary, and somehow the darkness did not seem so black to the sufferer for some days. For he was full of hope, a hope which grew stronger as the time went by. Then old Tummus came up to see him, and gladdened his heart with old-fashioned chatter about the garden, obstinately dwelling upon the "taters," and cabbages, and codlin and cat's-head apples, when the patient was eager to hear about the orchids, grapes, pines, and melons, which he pictured as he had seen them last.

But Mary's name was not mentioned, for John Grange had thought the matter out. It was impossible, he said, and time would soften the agony for both--unless his stay here proved of avail.

But the days glided by--a week--a fortnight--a month--then two months, during which specialists had seen him, consultations had been held; and then came the day when old Tummus was up in town again, with flowers and fruit, which John Grange took round the ward from patient to patient, walking slowly, but with little to show that he was blind, as he distributed the presents he had received, and said good-bye to his dark companions.

For the verdict had been pa.s.sed by the profession who had seen him that they could do nothing, and Mrs Mostyn had sent word that Grange was to be fetched back, old Tummus and his wife gladly acceding to the proposal that the young man should lodge with them for a few weeks, till arrangements could be made for his entrance to some asylum, or some way hit upon for him to get his living free from the misery of having nothing to do.

"Cheer up, my lad!" said the old man, as they were on their way back.

"I do, old fellow," said John Grange quietly. "I have been two months in that place, and it has taught me patience. There, I am never going to repine."

"You're as patient as a lamb, my dear," said old Hannah the next day; "and it's wonderful to see how you go about and don't look blind a bit.

Why, you go quite natural-like into our bit of garden, and begin feeling the plants."

"Yes," he said, "I feel happier then. I've been thinking, Hannah, whether a blind man could get his living off an acre of ground with plants and flowers that he could not see, but would know by the smell."

"Well, you do cap me, my dear," said the old woman. "I don't know."

And then to herself, "Look at him, handsome and bright-eyed--even if he can't see, I don't see why he shouldn't manage to marry his own dear love after all. There'd be an eye apiece for them, there would, and an Eye above all-seeing to watch over 'em both."

And old Hannah wiped her own, as she saw John Grange stoop down and gently caress a homely tuft of southern-wood, pa.s.sing his hands over it, inhaling the scent, and then talking to himself, just as Mrs Mostyn came up to the garden hedge, and stood watching him, holding up her hand to old Hannah, to be silent, and not let him know that she was there.

CHAPTER TEN.

"Wait and see, my lad, wait and see," said James Ellis. "There, there: we're in no hurry. You've only just got your appointment, and, as you know well enough, women are made of tender stuff. Very soft, Dan, my boy. Bless 'em, they're very nice though. We grow in the open air; they grow under gla.s.s, as you may say. We're outdoor plants; they're indoor, and soft, and want care. Polly took a fancy to poor John Grange, and his misfortune made her worse. He became a sort of hero for her school-girl imagination, and if you were to worry her, and I was to come the stern father, and say, You must marry Dan Barnett, what would be the consequences? She'd mope and think herself persecuted, and be ready to do anything for his sake."

Daniel Barnett sighed.

"There, don't be a fool, man," said Ellis, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Have patience. My Pol--Mary is as dear and good a girl as ever stepped, and as dutiful. What we saw was all sentiment and emotion.

She's very young, and every day she'll be growing wiser and more full of commonplace sense. Poor John Grange has gone."

"But he has come back, and is staying with old Tummus."

"Yes, yes, I know, but only for a few days, till Mrs Mostyn has settled something about him. She's a dear, good mistress, Dan, and I'd do anything for her. She consulted me about it only the other day. She wants to get him into some inst.i.tution; and if she can't she'll pension him off somewhere. I think he'll go to some relatives of his out Lancashire way. But, anyhow, John Grange is as good as dead, so far as your career is concerned. You've got the post he was certain to have had, for the mistress was very fond of John."

"Yes; he'd got the length of her foot, and no mistake, sir."

"Well, well, you can do the same. She loves her flowers, and poor John was for his age as fine a florist as ever lived. She saw that, and of course it pleased her. All you have to do is to pet her orchids, and make the gla.s.s-houses spick and span, keep the roses blooming, and-- there, I needn't preach to you, Daniel, my lad; you're as good a gardener as poor John Grange, and your bread is b.u.t.tered on both sides for life."

"Not quite, sir," cried the young man quietly.

"All right; I know what you mean."

"Then you consent, sir?"

"Oh, no, I don't. I only say to you, wait and see. I'm not going to promise anything, and I'm not going to have my comfortable home made miserable by seeing wife and child glum and ready to burst out crying.

I'm not going to force that tender plant, Dan. Mary's a sensible girl, and give her time and she'll see that it is impossible for her to spend her life playing stick, or little dog, to a blind man. She shall see that her father wishes what is best for her, and in the end the pretty little fruit, which is only green now, will become ripe, and drop into some worthy young fellow's hands. If his name is Daniel Barnett, well and good. We shall see. All I want is to see my pet go to a good home and be happy."

Daniel Barnett held out his hand.

"No, no; I'm going to clinch no bargains, and I'm not going to be bothered about this any more. Your policy is to wait. The seed's sown.

I dare say it will come up some day. Now then, business. About Maitland Williams?"

"Well, Mr Ellis, you know him as well as I do. Admiral Morgan can't give him a rise because the other men are all right, and he wants to be a step higher, and be all under gla.s.s. He has spoken to me twice. He says he wouldn't have done so, only poor John Grange was of course out of it, and he didn't think that we had any one who could be promoted."

"That's quite right. He has been to me three times, and I don't see that we could do better. Think you could get on with him?"

"Oh, yes, he's all right, sir."

"Very well, then; I'm going up to the house to see the mistress about the hay. Nixon wants to buy it again this year."

"And take all the mowing off our hands, sir?"

"Yes, I suppose you would rather not spare the men to make it ourselves."

"Well, sir, you know the season as well as I do. There's no end of things asking to be done."

"Yes, I shall advise her to let it go, and I'll ask her to sanction Williams being taken on. He says he can come and fill poor Grange's place at once."

They parted, Daniel Barnett to go and begin tying up some loose strands in the vinery, and trim out some side-growth which interfered with the ripening of the figs; James Ellis to walk up to the house and ask to see Mrs Mostyn, who sent out word by the butler that she would be in the library in a few minutes.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Meanwhile there had been tears and trouble at the cottage, and Mary was sobbing in her mother's arms.

"But it seems so hard, dear," she whispered; "he's there, and waiting hopefully in the dark for me to go to him and say a few kind and loving words."

"That you can't go and say, dear. I know--I know, but you cannot go, my darling. Now, just think a bit: you know what father would say. He is certain to know that you have been, and it would be like flying in his face. Now come, come, do be patient and wait. Some day, perhaps, his sight may come back, and if it did I'm sure father loves you too well to stand in the way of your happiness."

"But you don't think as he does, mother dear, so don't say you think he is right."