The week, had passed, and Daniel Barnett had been up to the cottage
twice while John Grange lay in the dark. The welcome had been warm
enough from James Ellis; Mrs Ellis had been lukewarm and wary.
"Ah, well, that will come," said the young man to himself on the
previous evening, after he had received his instructions from the
bailiff about the fly to the station, and his duties in taking charge of
John Grange, and going up with him to the little private infirmary where
he was to stay for a few months if necessary. "Poor chap! I'm sorry
for him, but, as I said before, we can't all win."
The day for John Grange's departure had come, and he lay back upon a
little couch fighting hard to bear his misfortune like a man, and think
hopefully of his future. Mrs Mostyn had been to see him four times,
and spoke in the most motherly way as she prophesied a successful issue
to the journey; but only left him more low-spirited as he thought of
Mary and his and her future.
The couch was close to the open window, where he could feel the warm
sunshine, and old Hannah had left him for a short time alone to go and
finish packing his little bag, while Daniel Barnett in his best was
waiting to see James Ellis, when he came from the house, receive his
final instructions, and then have the fly brought to the garden-door for
John Grange.
He had quite half-an-hour to wait before Ellis appeared, and on joining
him held out his hand.
"Good-bye, sir," said Barnett, "but I shall see you at the bothy. I'll
take great care of the poor fellow."
"I meant to congratulate you, Dan Barnett, our new head-gardener," said
Ellis. "Mrs Mostyn confirms your appointment. Success to you! Now
come on to the bothy, and let's get that poor fellow off. I'll let him
know of it by and by--not for a week or two yet."
But John Grange, as he lay there, was feeling sure that the appointment
would be given to Barnett, and he only sighed in a hopeless way, and
felt that it was just. And just then he heard a step and pulled himself
together.
"Come in," he said, trying to speak cheerily. "No mistaking your fairy
footsteps, Tummus. I thought you'd come and say good-bye."
"Aye, and come to the station too, my lad. And I mean to come up to the
orspittle once a week, to bring you a bit o' fruit and a few flowers, if
I have to walk."
"Thank you, old man; thank you."
"You need a bit o' comfort, my lad, and I want you to get right. That
old 'ooman's drying hersen up wi' crying about you. There wean't be a
drop o' mysture left in her by and by. Ah! It's a strange world."
"It never felt so beautiful before, old man," said John Grange sadly.
"Thought I'd try and comfort you up a bit. S'pose you know that Dan
Barnett's safe to be the new head?"
"Yes, I suppose so, Tummus."
"Yah! Means ruins to the grand old place."
"Nonsense! Dan is a thoroughly good gardener when he likes."
"Aye, when he likes," said the old man; and he suddenly subsided into
silence, which lasted some minutes, during which John Grange was very
thoughtful. Then, suddenly starting, the invalid said--
"There, old fellow, don't run down a good man. It was to be."
There was a deep sigh.
"Don't do that, old chap," said John. "It isn't cheering. I don't mind
it so very much. But you must go now; I want to think a bit before they
fetch me. Good-bye, and thank you and your dear old wife for all she
has done. It's no use to fight against it, old man; I'm going to be
always in the dark, I know well enough, so you may as well try and train
up some dog to lead me about when I come back, for Heaven only knows
what's to become of me. But there, say good-bye. My old mother shan't
have taught me to kneel down and say every night, `thy will be done!'
for nothing. There--shake hands and go," he said, trying to command his
trembling voice--"before I break down and cry like a girl, just when I
want to act the man."
He stretched out his hand again, and it closed, but not upon old
Tummus's horny palm, but ringers that were soft and warm, and clung to
his; and as that little, soft, trembling hand seemed to nestle there,
John Grange uttered a hoarse cry.
"Who--who is this?" he whispered then.
For answer there was a quick, rustling sound, as of some one kneeling
down by the couch, and then there was wild sobbing and panting as a
soft, wet cheek was laid against his hands.
"Miss Ellis--Mary!" he cried wildly; and the answer came at once.
"Oh, John, John, I could not bear it--I could not let you go without one
word."