In those few joyous moments the darkness became light, dazzling light,
to John Grange; misery, despair, the blank life before him, had dropped
away, and the future spread out in a vista wherein hope shone brightly,
and all was illumined by the sweet love of a true-hearted woman.
He would have been less than man if he had not drawn the half-shrinking,
half-yielding figure to his heart, and held Mary tightly there as,
amidst tears and sobs, she confessed how she had long felt that he loved
her, but doubted herself the reality of the new sensation which had made
her pleased to see him, while when she met him as they spoke something
seemed to urge her to avoid him, and look hard, distant, and cold. Then
the terrible misfortune had come, and she knew the truth; the bud grew
and had opened, and she trembled lest any one should divine her secret,
till she knew that he was to go away believing that she might care for
Daniel Barnett; in suffering and mental pain, needing all that those who
cared for him could do to soften his pitiable case; and at last,
believing that she alone could send him away hopeful and patient to bear
his awful infirmity, she had cast off all reserve and come to say
good-bye.
"And you will not think the less of me?" she whispered appealingly.
"Think the less of you!" he cried proudly; "how can you ask that? Mary,
you send me away happy. I shall go patient and hopeful, believing that
the doctors can and will give me back my sight, and ready to wait till I
may come back to you, my own love--for I do love you, dear. This year
past my every thought has been of you, and I have worked and studied to
make myself worthy, but always in despair, for I felt that you could not
care for one like me, and that--"
"How could you think it?" she whispered tenderly, as she nestled to him.
"I never, never could have cared for him, John, nor for any one but
you."
And for those brief minutes all was the brightest of life's sunshine in
that humble room. There were tears in Mary's sweet grey eyes, and they
clung upon the lashes and lay wet upon her cheeks; but that sunshine
made them flash irradiant with joy before the black cloud closed in
again, and John Grange's pale face grew convulsed with agony, as he
shrank from her, only holding her hands in his with a painful clasp;
while, as she gazed at him wildly, startled by the change, she saw that
his eyes seemed to be staring wildly at her, so bright, unchanged, and
keen that it was impossible to believe that they were blank, so plainly
did they bespeak the agony and despair in the poor fellow's breast.
"John," she cried excitedly, "what is it? Shall I go for help? You are
in terrible pain?"
"Yes, yes, dear," he moaned; "pain so great that it is more than I can
bear. No, no, don't go, not for a minute, dear; but go then, never to
come near me more. Don't, don't tempt me. God help me and give me
strength."
"John, dear," he whispered piteously, as she clung to his hands, and he
felt her press towards him till the throbbings of her heart beat upon
his wrists.
"No, no," he groaned. "Mary, dear, let me tell you while I have
strength. I should be no man if I was silent now. I shouldn't be
worthy of you, dear, nor of the love you have shown me you could have
given."
"John, John!"
"Don't, don't speak to me like that," he groaned, "or you will make me
forget once more, and speak to you as I did just now. I was half mad
with joy, beside myself with the sweet delight. But 'tis taking a
coward's, a cruel advantage of you in your innocence and love. Mary,
Mary dear," he said faintly; and could those eyes which stared so
blankly towards her have seen, he would have gazed upon the calm,
patient face, upon which slowly dawned a gentle tenderness, as she bent
lower and lower as if longing to kiss his hands, which she caressed with
her warm breath, while she listened to his words.
"Listen, dear," he said, "and let me tell you the truth before you say
good-bye, and go back to pray for me--for your own dear self--that we
may be patient and bear it. Time will make it easier, and by and by we
can look back upon all this as something that might have been."
"Yes," she said gently, and she raised her face a little as she knelt by
the couch to gaze fondly in his eyes.
"I am going away, dear, and it is best, for what we have said must be
like a dream. Mary, dear, you will not forget me, but you must think of
me as a poor brother smitten with this affliction, one, dear, that I
have to bear patiently to the end."
"Yes, John," she said, with a strange calmness in her tones.
"How could I let you tie yourself down to a poor helpless wretch who
will always be dependent upon others for help? It would be a death in
life for you, Mary. In my great joy I forgot it all; but my reason has
come back. There is no hope, dear. I am going up to town because Mrs
Mostyn wishes it. Heaven bless her for a good, true woman! But it is
of no use, I know. Doctor Manning knows it well enough. My sight has
gone, dear, and I must face the future like a man. You well know I am
speaking the truth."
She tried to reply, but there was a suffocating sensation at her throat,
and it was some moments before she could wildly gasp out--"Yes!"
Then the strange, sweet, patient look of calm came back, with the gentle
pity and resignation in her eyes as she gazed at him with sorrow.
"There," he said, "you must go now. Bless you, Mary--bless you, dear.
You have sent gladness and a spirit of hopefulness into my dark heart,
and I am going away ready to bear it all manfully, for I know it will be
easier to bear--by and by--when I get well and strong. Then you shall
hear how patient I am, and some day in the future I shall be pleased in
hearing, dear, that you are happy with some good, honest fellow who
loves and deserves you; and perhaps too," he continued, talking quickly
and with a smile upon his lip, as he tried to speak cheerfully in his
great desire to lessen her grief and send her away suffering less
keenly--"perhaps too, some day, I may be able to come and see--"
He broke down. He could, in his weak state, bear no more, and with a
piteous cry he snatched away his hands and covered his convulsed
features, as he lay back there quivering in every nerve.
And then from out of the deep, black darkness, mental and bodily, which
closed him in, light shone out once more, as, gently and tenderly, a
slight soft arm glided round his neck, and a cold, wet cheek was laid
against his hands, while in low, measured tones, every word spoken
calmly, almost in a whisper, but thrilling the suffering man to the
core, Mary murmured--
"I never knew till now how much a woman's duty in life is to help and
comfort those who suffer. John, dear, I have listened to everything you
said, and feel it no shame now to speak out all that is in my heart. I
always liked the frank, straightforward man who spoke to me as if he
respected me; who never gave me a look that was not full of the
reverence for me that I felt was in his breast. You never paid me a
compliment, never talked to me but in words which I felt were wise and
true. You made me like you, and now, once more, I tell you that when
this trouble came I learned that I loved you. John, dear, this great
affliction has come to you--to us both, and I know you will learn to
bear it in your own patient, wise way."
"Yes, yes," he groaned; "but blind--blind! Mary--for pity's sake leave
me--in the dark--in the dark."
She rose from her knees by his side, and he uttered a sob, for he felt
that she was going; but she retained one of his hands between hers in a
firm, cool clasp.
"No, dear," she said softly; "those who love are one. John Grange, I
will never leave you, and your life shall not be dark. Heaven helping
me, it shall be my task to lighten your way. You shall see with my
eyes, dear; my hand shall always be there to guide you wherever you may
go; and some day in the future, when we have grown old and grey, you
shall look back, dear, with your strong, patient mind, and then tell me
that I have done well, and that your path in life has not been dark."
"Mary," he groaned, "for pity's sake don't tempt me; it is more than I
can bear."
"It is no temptation, John," she said softly, and in utter ignorance
that there were black shadows across her and the stricken man, she bent
down and kissed his forehead. "Last Sunday only, in church, I heard
these words--`If aught but death part me and thee.'"
She sank upon her knees once more, and with her hands clasped together
and resting upon his breast, her face turned heavenwards, her eyes
closed and her lips moving as if in prayer, while the two shadows which
had been cast on the sunlight from the door softly passed away, James
Ellis and Daniel Barnett stepping back on to the green, and standing
looking in each other's eyes, till the sound of approaching wheels was
heard. Then assuming that they had that moment come up, James Ellis and
the new head-gardener strode once more up to the door.