"Yes, it's all very well; but fathers don't understand their girls like
mothers do. Women know how to read women and men don't, and never
will--that's my humble opinion about that--and I wish Daniel Barnett
would go--"
Daniel Barnett was a clever fellow, but like many sharp men he could be
too much so sometimes. Metaphorically, he was one of those men who
disdained the use of stirrups for mounting a horse, and liked to vault
into the saddle, which he could do with ease and grace, but sometimes he
would, in his efforts to show off, over-leap himself--vaulting ambition
fashion--and come down heavily on the other side.
He performed that feat on the present occasion at supper, for, in his
blundering way, now that circumstances had occurred which made him feel
pretty safe, he thought it would be good form to show Mary what a fine,
magnanimous side there was in his character, and how, far from looking
upon John Grange as a possible rival, he treated him as a poor,
unfortunate being, for whom he could feel nothing but pity.
"Rather strange business, wasn't it, about poor Grange, Mr Ellis, eh?"
Mary started. Mrs Ellis thrust her hand beneath the table-cloth to
give her daughter's dress a twitch, and Ellis frowned and uttered a kind
of grunt, which might have meant anything.
Any one else would have known by the silence that he had touched
dangerous ground. Daniel Barnett felt that it was an opportunity for
him to speak.
"I am very sorry for the poor fellow," he said; "it seems so sad, but it
is no more than I expected."
Mary turned white and cold.
"You don't know where he has gone, Mr Ellis?"
"No," said the bailiff shortly.
"No; I thought you said so. Poor chap! I did everything I could to
make matters easy for him, and selected little jobs that I thought he
could do; but, of course, he would not take to them happily. He felt it
hard to have to take his orders from me, and very naturally, for he
expected to be head-gardener, and would have been, eh, Mr Ellis?"
"Yes," grunted the bailiff.
"To be sure he would. I'm not such a donkey as to suppose I should have
got the place if he had been all right. I'm a good gardener, though I
say it as shouldn't say it, Miss Mary; but there were lots of little
dodges about flowers where he could beat me hollow. Ha, ha, ha!" he
laughed, "I wouldn't say that before the men, but I don't mind here."
"Is Mr Grange bad again?" asked Mrs Ellis, unable to restrain her
curiosity.
"Bad, ma'am? Well, of course he's bad; but no worse than usual. You
know, I suppose, that he's gone away?"
"I? No."
"Oh, yes, quite mysterious like; never said good-bye to a soul."
"But me," thought Mary, with a sensation as of something clutching her
heart, as she recalled that night at her bedroom window.
"Yes, poor fellow, he's gone," said Ellis, who felt that it was time to
speak.
"Of course I know why," said Barnett, "it was too much for him. He was
fretting his heart out, poor chap, and he no doubt thought it was the
best he could do--get right away you know, where he wasn't known, and
where everything he saw--I mean everything he touched--didn't remind him
of the old place. It's all very sad, and it used to make me feel
uncomfortable, and keep away for fear of making him think of my
superseding him; but there, we're all like plants and flowers, Miss
Mary, and suffer from our blights and east winds."
He looked across at Mary, whose face was stony, and her eyes fixed upon
him so strangely that he felt abashed, and turned to Mrs Ellis.
"Sad business, ma'am, from the beginning," he said; "but, as the saying
is, we don't know, and perhaps it's all for the best."
Mrs Ellis sighed, the supper was at an end; and to the great relief of
all, Barnett rose, and in a tone of voice which suggested that every one
had been pressing him very hard to stay longer, he cried--
"Well, really, I must go now."
Mrs Ellis said meekly, "Must you, Mr Barnett?" and held out her hand
promptly.
He shook hands with her quite affectionately, and then turned to Mary,
who let him take her hand more than gave it, and he sighed as he said
"Good-night."
"You'll think about the gravel, Mr Ellis?" he said to his host. "I
want that garden to look better than any one in the county."
"Yes, you shall have it, Barnett, first time I can spare the horses at
the farm. And I'll go down to the gate with you." They walked not only
to the gate, but a couple of hundred yards towards the gardens before
either spoke, and then just as Barnett was congratulating himself upon
how well he had got on at the cottage that night, Ellis turned to him
sharply.
"I told Mrs Mostyn about John Grange having gone away so suddenly."
"Did you, sir? What did she say?"
"That she didn't want to hear his name mentioned again, for she had been
disappointed in the man."
"Poor chap!" said Barnett sadly.
"Yes, poor chap!" said Ellis hastily. "For Heaven's sake don't ever
hint at such a thing at home, Daniel, but I've a horrible thought of
something being wrong about that poor fellow. You don't think that,
quite out of heart and in despair like, he has gone and done anything
rash, do you?"
"Well, Mr Ellis, I didn't like to hint at such a thing to any one, but
as you do think like that, and as old Tummus and his wife seem to be
quite suspicious like, it did set me thinking, and I've felt sometimes
that he must have walked two miles the other night to the river, and
then gone in."
"By accident?" said Ellis quietly, "in his blindness."
"Ah!" said Barnett solemnly, "that's more than I can tell."
"Or must tell," said Ellis excitedly. "It mustn't even be breathed, Dan
Barnett. If my Mary even heard it whispered, she'd go melancholy mad."