Four days elapsed, and Mrs Ellis noticed a change in her child. Mary
had been more than usually attentive to her father, and James Ellis had
noticed and looked pleased.
"'Tis going off, mother," he said one evening. "Of course it hit very
hard at the time, poor little lass, for she felt very fond of him, I
suppose; but I always said to myself that time would heal the sore
place, and, bless her, it is doing it. You've noticed how much brighter
she seems?"
"Yes, I've noticed," said Mrs Ellis, nodding her head as she prepared
the supper. "She was actually singing gently to herself this morning
over her work, just as she used to, and you don't know, James dear, what
a lot of good it did me."
"Oh, yes, I do--oh, yes, I do," said the bailiff, nodding his head. "Of
course it would, mother."
"Yes, dear, it did, for it has been cruel work for me to see her going
about the house in that heart-breaking way."
"Humph! Of course, and for me too."
"No, James, you're at home so little. You have your meals and sit with
me of an evening, and at such times there's something going on to make
the poor dear busy. But as soon as you're out of sight it has been
dreadful again. I've seen a deal more of her poor heart-breaking than
you have, and there have been times when--"
"Heart-breaking! Stuff and nonsense!" cried James Ellis petulantly.
"Ah, you don't know," said his wife, shaking her head at him sadly.
"Don't know what, you silly woman? There, that sounds like
heart-breaking, doesn't it?"
For at that moment, plainly heard, came the sound of Mary's voice
singing the old English song, "Robin Adair"; and as the notes reached
his ear, James Ellis smiled, held his head on one side, swayed it to the
melody, and began softly to hum over the plaintive tune.
"_Rob_--_in_--_er_--_her_--_dair_," sang James Ellis. "Well done,
little lassie! Talk about a voice, mother, why it's as sweet as a
bird's."
"Yes, dear, but I wish she wouldn't sing such sad things--it puts me in
mind of the robins in the autumn time."
"I wish you wouldn't be so melancholy, mother. You're enough to put a
whole regiment of soldiers out of spirits, let alone a poor girl. Here,
hold your tongue now. Here she comes."
Footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and the foot was more springy than
it had been of late, as Mary entered the room.
"Ready for supper, father dear?" said Mary, going behind his chair,
placing her arms about his neck, and drawing his head back so that she
could lay her cheek against his forehead.
"Ready, my pet? Of course I am;" and
"_Rob_--_in_--_er_--_her_--_dair_," he sang. "That's the way. I'm glad
to hear you tune up a bit. It's like the birds in spring corn: and
mother wants it, for of all the melancholy old women that ever lived,
she's about the worst."
_Click_!
"Hallo! Who's that at the gate? Just look, dear."
Mary went to the window, but there was no need, for she knew the step;
and as her mother glanced at her, she saw the girl's face harden as she
said--
"Mr Barnett, father."
"Humph! What does he want to-night?" muttered Ellis. "Let him in, my
dear; and, Mary, my girl, don't run away out of the room."
Mary was silent, and a tapping came at the door, evidently administered
by the head of a stick.
"Evening, Miss Mary," said the visitor briskly. "Nice growing weather.
Father at home?"
"Yes, I'm at home. Want me, Daniel Barnett?"
"Well, yes, Mr Ellis, sir, there's a little bit o' business I want to
see you about. I ought to have asked you this morning and down at the
gardens, but somehow I've always got such a lot of things on my mind
there that a lot of 'em slip out again."
"Come in then, come in then," said Ellis.
"Not if it's disturbing you, sir," protested the visitor. "Say the
word, and I'll go and come up another evening. I don't mind a walk,
Miss Mary," he added, in a confidential way.
"Business, business, Daniel Barnett! And there's nothing like getting
it over," said Ellis, as, after a good deal of preliminary shoe-rubbing,
Barnett stepped to the door of the sitting-room, and then stopped short
in a very apologetic way.
"Why, you're just going to supper. I'd best come up to-morrow night."
James Ellis felt in the best of humours, and he smiled.
"Well," he said, "if you come to-morrow evening, I suppose I shall have
some supper then. Sit down, man, and out with it."
"Oh, thank you, Mr Ellis, and with many apologies to you, Mrs Ellis,
ma'am, and to you too, Miss Mary."
"Why, hallo! Daniel Barnett. Been to the bookseller's lately?"
"Eh? No, sir, I haven't been to the town for a fortnight past," said
Barnett wonderingly.
"Oh," said the bailiff, with a knowing look at his wife and daughter; "I
thought perhaps you'd bought and been studying up _Etiquette for
Gentlemen_."
"No, no, sir! Ha, ha, ha! That's a good one, Mr Ellis. Oh, no, sir,
I'm only a rough one, and what I know of etiquetty came up natural
like--like--"
"Mushrooms?"
"That's a good one too!" cried Barnett, with forced gaiety. "He's
having his little joke at me, Miss Mary."
"There, never mind them," said the bailiff, "let's have the business and
get it over. What is it?"
"Of course, sir. It won't take long."
"Shall we go in the kitchen, James?" said Mrs Ellis.
"Eh, ma'am?" cried the young man eagerly. "Oh, no, pray don't let me
drive you away, it's only garden business."
"They're not going," said Ellis, half jocularly. "Now then, what is it,
my lad?"
"Well, it's about the gravel paths, Mr Ellis," said the young man,
leaning forward, after wiping his damp forehead, and speaking
confidentially. "I'm getting a bit anxious about them."
"Glad to hear it, my lad. I was always proud o' my paths in the old
days."
"And so am I, sir. If the gravel paths in a garden's kept right there
isn't so very much the matter."
"Humph! Well, I don't go so far as that, Daniel Barnett, but paths go a
long way. So you're ashamed of their being so weedy, eh?"
"Weedy, sir," said the young man, flushing.
"Why those paths--Oh, I see! Ha ha! He's chaffing me again, Miss
Mary."
Mary did not even smile, and the visitor looked uncomfortable, his own
face growing serious again directly.
"It's a long time since they've been regravelled, Mr Ellis, sir, and as
I could spare a bit of time, I thought, if you were not much pressed up
at the farm, you might let me have a hundred loads of gravel carted from
the pit."
"Take a lot of time and very hard work for the horses," said the
bailiff, pursing up his lips.
"Yes, sir, I calculated all that, but it would be a wonderful
improvement to my paths, and they'd pay for doing."
"I don't want to spare the carts, Daniel Barnett; but I agree with you
it would be a great improvement, and I want Mrs Mostyn to feel that you
are doing justice to the place, so I suppose I must say yes."
"Thank you, sir, thank you," cried Barnett, for he could feel the
strength of the encouragement, and knew how much it meant. "There," he
continued, rising very slowly and glancing at mother and daughter as he
spoke, "I'll start two men picking up the big path, and I s'pose you'll
be sending down the gravel almost any time."
"They shall begin soon and get it over."
"Thank you, sir; then I'll say good-night now. Good-night, Mrs Ellis.
Good-night, Miss Mary."
"What, won't you stop and have a bit of supper with us, Daniel?" said
the bailiff.
Wouldn't he! And "Daniel" too! He dropped down into his chair
muttering something about its being very kind, and that he thought he
wouldn't mind a morsel, but he looked in vain for a welcoming smile from
Mary, who, without a word, slowly left the room, and returned as
silently as she went, but with fresh knives and forks, and a couple more
plates.
"But she didn't put 'em next to hers," thought Daniel Barnett, most
unreasonably, for there was the whole opposite side of the table at
liberty, and she laid a place for him there.
It was of course what he had been looking for. He had come expecting to
be asked to stay, and as soon as they were all seated he told himself
that it was all right, and he stared hard at the gentle face across the
table and started various topics of conversation, directed at Mary, her
father good-humouredly helping him with a word now and then, while Mrs
Ellis looked on and attended to the wants of her guest.
"Yes, she's coming round at last," thought Daniel Barnett; for, whenever
she was addressed, Mary replied in a quiet, gentle way, and once entered
into the conversation with some word of animation, making the bailiff
look across the table at his wife, and give her a nod, as much as to
say--
"Now then, who's broken-hearted now?"