From that hour they saw the poor girl droop and begin to fade like some
flower stricken by blight. No murmur escaped her lips, and John
Grange's name was never mentioned. But it was noted at home that she
appeared to be more gently affectionate to those about her, and anxious
to please her father, while many a time poor Mrs Ellis told her husband
that she was sure "our Mary" was slowly sinking into the grave.
"Wait a bit, wife--wait a bit," he would reply testily. "It's quite
natural. You'll see it will pass off, and she'll forget."
"Never, James."
"Well, then, it will become softened down as time goes on; she's gentler
towards Daniel Barnett, too, now. There: it will all come right in the
end."
Mrs Ellis sighed and shook her head, but all the same she thought that
after all her husband might prove to be correct.
"For James is a very wise man," she argued, "and one can't go on
mourning for ever, however much one may have loved."
Daniel Barnett placed his own interpretation on Mary's manner towards
him, and there were times when he was exulted, and felt how successfully
he had climbed up the ladder of life. Head-gardener at Mrs Mostyn's by
eight-and-twenty; James Ellis's prospective son-in-law; and in the
future he would be bailiff and agent, when Ellis was removed by
infirmity or death; and in the latter case he and Mary, the only child,
would inherit the nice little bit of money the old man had saved, and
the six cottages which he had bought from time to time.
Very pleasant all this, joined to the success in the gardens, where Mrs
Mostyn had begun to show him more favour, and had several times
expressed great satisfaction at the state of her garden.
But Daniel Barnett was not happy. He was perfectly sure that Mary would
some day yield to his and her mother's wishes, and become his wife; but
even that knowledge did not clear away the black cloud which overhung
his life. For, sleeping or waking, he could not get rid of the feeling
that John Grange's remains would some day be discovered, and conscience
troubled him with the idea that he was more or less to blame for the
poor fellow's untimely end. It was in vain that he indignantly
protested to himself that it was not likely a man should risk his life
if he could help it. That he was not bound to climb that tree, and that
he did quite right to take care of himself, and so escape what might
have been his fate. "I might have fallen, and turned blind, or might
have been killed," he would often say to himself. "It was a bit of luck
for me--ill-luck for him, poor chap. He went, and there's an end of
it."
But there was not "an end of it," for Daniel Barnett's life was made a
misery to him by the thoughts of how Grange had suffered, and how he had
treated him, till in despair--
"Yes; that's it," Tummus would whisper to him; "he went and walked into
the river, or--"
Daniel Barnett shivered and avoided the big well in the garden, and
stubbornly refused to have the two great underground rain-water tanks
cleaned out in the dry time for fear of some revelation being made.
In his own mind he grew more and more sure that John Grange had taken
his life, but he said nothing, and though affectionately amiable to his
friends up at the cottage, he daily grew more morose to those beneath
him in the gardens, and made their lives as great a burden as his own
was to him.
Troubles of this kind go on for a long time before they reach the
employer's ears. James Ellis heard that there were complaints of
Barnett's tyrannical treatment, and threats on the part of the men to
leave; but he saw that the garden was admirably kept and sided with the
head, refusing to listen to the murmurs which grew deep now instead of
loud.
The months had glided by, and it was autumn once more, with the fruit
ripening fast in the garden, and, save to Mary Ellis, the sad episode of
John Grange's career had grown fainter and fainter in the memories of
those who had known him.
Barnett had long ceased to wait for invitations, and quite three times a
week used to go up to the cottage and stay late, while at the house he
was often joked and questioned as to when it was coming off, whereupon
he would smile and look knowing, while all the time there was a bitter
gnawing at his heart, for he knew that he was no nearer winning Mary
than he was the year before when John Grange disappeared.
Then came a sharp little encounter, one bright September day in the
garden, where, after his wont, old Tummus had been to what he called
"torment them there weeds," to wit, chopping and tearing them up with
his hoe, and leaving them to shrink and die.
The _Bon Chretiens_ were particularly fine that year, and one which had
become worm-eaten, and had in consequence prematurely ripened, showing
all the bright tints of its kind, had fallen and lay ready to rot, when,
hoeing away, old Tummus saw it, smiled to himself as he thought how it
would please old Hannah, picked it up and laid it aside ready to take up
to the bothy when he put on his coat at dinner-time.
"I shall have to ask him for it," muttered the old man, "or else
there'll be a row."
Just at that moment, as luck had it, Mrs Mostyn came along, with
scissors and basket, to cut a few dahlias, and, in obedience to a sudden
thought, old Tummus raised the fruit by the stalk and stepped toward his
mistress, offering her the pear.
"Strange nyste pear, mum," he said.
"And ripe so soon. There, lay it in the basket. Ah! Tut, tut! It's
all worm-eaten; take it away, and give it to somebody who will not
mind."
Mrs Mostyn went on, and old Tummus chuckled, and hid the pear just as
Daniel Barnett caught sight of him, and having marked the spot, waited
till the old man had gone away. He then searched for, found the pear,
and leaving it untouched, quietly watched at dinner-time, saw old Tummus
secure the treasure, pocket it, and he was going off when Barnett
accosted him with--
"What have you got there?"
"Pear," said the old man stubbornly, as Barnett tried to snatch it from
his pocket.
"Now I know where the fruit goes. Why, you thieving old scoundrel.
I'll soon put an end to this."
"Scoundrel yourself!" cried the old man fiercely. "Smart a man as you
are, Dan Barnett. I never set myself to steal another man's love and
harassed him till he went and drowned hisself, if you didn't go behind
and throw him into the tank you won't have cleaned."
"Why, you lying old villain!" roared Barnett.
"Lying, eh?" retorted old Tummus; "it's a lie then that you shoved they
orchards off the shelf, I s'pose, and made believe it was poor John
Grange. A lie, perhaps, as you laid the scythe for the poor blind man
to walk on and cut hisself."
"Yes, a lie," cried Barnett, turning white.
"Then you tell it, for I see you do it, I did, and saved him from
crippling hisself for life. But we've had enough o' this. I goes
straight to Missus Mostyn and tells her all I know."
"Mrs Mostyn is here, sir," said a sharp, stern voice, "and has heard
all you have said."