"How do you say it happened?"
Old Tummus was riding in the doctor's gig back to The Hollows after
running across to the village for help; and he now repeated all he knew,
with the additions of sundry remarks about these new-fangled young
"harticult'ral gardeners who know'd everything but their work."
"Come right down on his head, poor lad," he said; "but you'll do your
best for him, doctor: don't you let him slip through your fingers."
The doctor smiled grimly, and soon after drew up at the door in the
garden wall, and hurried through to the bothy where John Grange had been
carried and lay perfectly insensible, with Mrs Mostyn, a dignified
elderly widow lady, who had hurried out as soon as she had heard of the
accident, bathing his head, and who now anxiously waited till the
doctor's examination was at an end.
"Well, doctor," said Mrs Mostyn eagerly, "don't keep me in suspense."
"I must," he replied gravely. "It will be some time before I can say
anything definite. I feared fractured skull, but there are no bones
broken."
"Thank heaven!" said Mrs Mostyn piously. "Such a frank, promising
young man--such an admirable florist. Then he is not going to be very
bad?"
"I cannot tell yet. He is perfectly insensible, and in all probability
he will suffer from the concussion to the brain, and spinal injury be
the result."
"Oh, doctor, I would have given anything sooner than this terrible
accident should have occurred. Pray forgive me--would you like
assistance?"
"Yes: of a good nurse. If complications arise, I will suggest the
sending for some eminent man."
Many hours elapsed before John Grange opened his eyes from what seemed
to be a deep sleep; and then he only muttered incoherently, and old
Tummus's plump, elderly wife, who was famed in the district for her
nursing qualities, sat by the bedside and shed tears as she held his
hand.
"Such a bonny lad," she said, "I wonder what Miss Mary'll say if he
should die."
Mary had heard the news at breakfast-time before her father had
returned, but she made no sign, only looked very pale and grave. And as
she dwelt upon the news she wondered what she would have said if John
Grange had come to her and spoken as Daniel Barnett did on the previous
evening.
This thought made the colour come back to her cheeks and a strange
fluttering to her breast as she recalled the different times they had
met, and John Grange's tenderly respectful way towards her.
Then she chased away her thoughts, for her mother announced from the
window that "father" was coming.
A minute later James Ellis entered, to sit down sadly to his breakfast,
his silence being respected by mother and daughter.
At last he spoke.
"You heard, of course, about poor Grange?"
"Yes. How is he?"
"Bad--very bad. Doctor don't say much, but it's a serious case, I fear.
Come right down on his head, close to my feet. There--I can't eat.
Only fancy, mother, talking to me as he was last night, and now lying
almost at the point of death."
He pushed away cup and plate, and sat back in his chair.
"`In the midst of life we are in death,'" he muttered. "Dear, dear, I
wish I hadn't spoken so harshly to him last night, mother. Fine,
straightforward young fellow, and as good a gardener as ever stepped."
Mrs Ellis sighed and glanced at her daughter, who was looking wildly
from one to the other.
"There; I'll get back. Ah! Who's this?"
It was Daniel Barnett, who had run up from the bothy; and Ellis hurried
out to the door.
"What is it?" he cried anxiously.
"Old Hannah says, `Will you come on:' She don't like the looks of him.
He's off his head."
Ellis caught his hat from the peg, and glanced at Daniel Barnett with a
peculiar thought or two in his head as the young man looked quickly at
the door and window.
Barnett caught the glance and felt uncomfortable, for though sorry for
his fellow-worker's accident, certain thoughts would intrude relating to
his own prospects if John Grange were not at The Hollows.
They hurried down to the grounds, mother and daughter watching from the
window, and in those few minutes a great change came over Mary Ellis's
face. It was as if it rapidly altered from that of the happy, careless
girl, who went singing about the house, to the thoughtful, anxious
woman. Even her way of speaking was different, as she turned quickly
upon her mother.
"What was father so angry about last night?" she said. "Did he have a
quarrel with poor Mr Grange?"
"Well, hardly a quarrel, my dear. Oh, it was nothing."
"But he said he was sorry he spoke so harshly to him. Mother, you are
keeping something back."
"Well, well, well, my darling, nothing much; only young men will be
young men; and father was put out by his vanity and conceit. He
actually got talking to father about you."
"About me?" said Mary, flushing, and beginning to tremble.
"Yes, my dear; and, as father said, it was nothing short of impudence
for a young man in his position to think about you. I don't know what's
come to the young men now-a-days, I'm sure."
Mary said nothing, but she was very thoughtful all that day, and during
the days which followed, for she had found out the truth about herself,
and a little germ that had been growing in her breast, but of which she
had thought little till Daniel Barnett came up and spoke, and made her
know she had a heart--a fact of which she became perfectly sure, when
the news reached her next morning of the sad accident in the grounds.