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 passed, 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 passed 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, passing 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.