Chapter Nine.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.
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.
Chapter Ten.“Wait and see, my lad, wait and see,” said James Ellis. “There, there: we’re in no hurry. You’ve only just got your appointment, and, as you know well enough, women are made of tender stuff. Very soft, Dan, my boy. Bless ’em, they’re very nice though. We grow in the open air; they grow under glass, as you may say. We’re outdoor plants; they’re indoor, and soft, and want care. Polly took a fancy to poor John Grange, and his misfortune made her worse. He became a sort of hero for her school-girl imagination, and if you were to worry her, and I was to come the stern father, and say, You must marry Dan Barnett, what would be the consequences? She’d mope and think herself persecuted, and be ready to do anything for his sake.”Daniel Barnett sighed.“There, don’t be a fool, man,” said Ellis, clapping him on the shoulder. “Have patience. My Pol— Mary is as dear and good a girl as ever stepped, and as dutiful. What we saw was all sentiment and emotion. She’s very young, and every day she’ll be growing wiser and more full of commonplace sense. Poor John Grange has gone.”“But he has come back, and is staying with old Tummus.”“Yes, yes, I know, but only for a few days, till Mrs Mostyn has settled something about him. She’s a dear, good mistress, Dan, andI’d do anything for her. She consulted me about it only the other day. She wants to get him into some institution; and if she can’t she’ll pension him off somewhere. I think he’ll go to some relatives of his out Lancashire way. But, anyhow, John Grange is as good as dead, so far as your career is concerned. You’ve got the post he was certain to have had, for the mistress was very fond of John.”“Yes; he’d got the length of her foot, and no mistake, sir.”“Well, well, you can do the same. She loves her flowers, and poor John was for his age as fine a florist as ever lived. She saw that, and of course it pleased her. All you have to do is to pet her orchids, and make the glass-houses spick and span, keep the roses blooming, and—there, I needn’t preach to you, Daniel, my lad; you’re as good a gardener as poor John Grange, and your bread is buttered on both sides for life.”“Not quite, sir,” cried the young man quietly.“All right; I know what you mean.”“Then you consent, sir?”“Oh, no, I don’t. I only say to you, wait and see. I’m not going to promise anything, and I’m not going to have my comfortable home made miserable by seeing wife and child glum and ready to burst out crying. I’m not going to force that tender plant, Dan. Mary’s a sensible girl, and give her time and she’ll see that it is impossible for her to spend her life playing stick, or little dog, to a blind man. She shall see that her father wishes what is best for her, and in the end the pretty little fruit, which is only green now, will become ripe, and drop into some worthy young fellow’s hands. If his name is Daniel Barnett, well and good. We shall see. All I want is to see my pet go to a good home and be happy.”Daniel Barnett held out his hand.“No, no; I’m going to clinch no bargains, and I’m not going to be bothered about this any more. Your policy is to wait. The seed’s sown. I dare say it will come up some day. Now then, business. About Maitland Williams?”“Well, Mr Ellis, you know him as well as I do. Admiral Morgan can’t give him a rise because the other men are all right, and he wants to be a step higher, and be all under glass. He has spoken to me twice. He says he wouldn’t have done so, only poor John Grange was of course out of it, and he didn’t think that we had any one who could be promoted.”“That’s quite right. He has been to me three times, and I don’t see that we could do better. Think you could get on with him?”“Oh, yes, he’s all right, sir.”“Very well, then; I’m going up to the house to see the mistress about the hay. Nixon wants to buy it again this year.”“And take all the mowing off our hands, sir?”“Yes, I suppose you would rather not spare the men to make it ourselves.”“Well, sir, you know the season as well as I do. There’s no end of things asking to be done.”“Yes, I shall advise her to let it go, and I’ll ask her to sanction Williams being taken on. He says he can come and fill poor Grange’s place at once.”They parted, Daniel Barnett to go and begin tying up some loose strands in the vinery, and trim out some side-growth which interfered with the ripening of the figs; James Ellis to walk up to the house and ask to see Mrs Mostyn, who sent out word by the butler that she would be in the library in a few minutes.
“Wait and see, my lad, wait and see,” said James Ellis. “There, there: we’re in no hurry. You’ve only just got your appointment, and, as you know well enough, women are made of tender stuff. Very soft, Dan, my boy. Bless ’em, they’re very nice though. We grow in the open air; they grow under glass, as you may say. We’re outdoor plants; they’re indoor, and soft, and want care. Polly took a fancy to poor John Grange, and his misfortune made her worse. He became a sort of hero for her school-girl imagination, and if you were to worry her, and I was to come the stern father, and say, You must marry Dan Barnett, what would be the consequences? She’d mope and think herself persecuted, and be ready to do anything for his sake.”
Daniel Barnett sighed.
“There, don’t be a fool, man,” said Ellis, clapping him on the shoulder. “Have patience. My Pol— Mary is as dear and good a girl as ever stepped, and as dutiful. What we saw was all sentiment and emotion. She’s very young, and every day she’ll be growing wiser and more full of commonplace sense. Poor John Grange has gone.”
“But he has come back, and is staying with old Tummus.”
“Yes, yes, I know, but only for a few days, till Mrs Mostyn has settled something about him. She’s a dear, good mistress, Dan, andI’d do anything for her. She consulted me about it only the other day. She wants to get him into some institution; and if she can’t she’ll pension him off somewhere. I think he’ll go to some relatives of his out Lancashire way. But, anyhow, John Grange is as good as dead, so far as your career is concerned. You’ve got the post he was certain to have had, for the mistress was very fond of John.”
“Yes; he’d got the length of her foot, and no mistake, sir.”
“Well, well, you can do the same. She loves her flowers, and poor John was for his age as fine a florist as ever lived. She saw that, and of course it pleased her. All you have to do is to pet her orchids, and make the glass-houses spick and span, keep the roses blooming, and—there, I needn’t preach to you, Daniel, my lad; you’re as good a gardener as poor John Grange, and your bread is buttered on both sides for life.”
“Not quite, sir,” cried the young man quietly.
“All right; I know what you mean.”
“Then you consent, sir?”
“Oh, no, I don’t. I only say to you, wait and see. I’m not going to promise anything, and I’m not going to have my comfortable home made miserable by seeing wife and child glum and ready to burst out crying. I’m not going to force that tender plant, Dan. Mary’s a sensible girl, and give her time and she’ll see that it is impossible for her to spend her life playing stick, or little dog, to a blind man. She shall see that her father wishes what is best for her, and in the end the pretty little fruit, which is only green now, will become ripe, and drop into some worthy young fellow’s hands. If his name is Daniel Barnett, well and good. We shall see. All I want is to see my pet go to a good home and be happy.”
Daniel Barnett held out his hand.
“No, no; I’m going to clinch no bargains, and I’m not going to be bothered about this any more. Your policy is to wait. The seed’s sown. I dare say it will come up some day. Now then, business. About Maitland Williams?”
“Well, Mr Ellis, you know him as well as I do. Admiral Morgan can’t give him a rise because the other men are all right, and he wants to be a step higher, and be all under glass. He has spoken to me twice. He says he wouldn’t have done so, only poor John Grange was of course out of it, and he didn’t think that we had any one who could be promoted.”
“That’s quite right. He has been to me three times, and I don’t see that we could do better. Think you could get on with him?”
“Oh, yes, he’s all right, sir.”
“Very well, then; I’m going up to the house to see the mistress about the hay. Nixon wants to buy it again this year.”
“And take all the mowing off our hands, sir?”
“Yes, I suppose you would rather not spare the men to make it ourselves.”
“Well, sir, you know the season as well as I do. There’s no end of things asking to be done.”
“Yes, I shall advise her to let it go, and I’ll ask her to sanction Williams being taken on. He says he can come and fill poor Grange’s place at once.”
They parted, Daniel Barnett to go and begin tying up some loose strands in the vinery, and trim out some side-growth which interfered with the ripening of the figs; James Ellis to walk up to the house and ask to see Mrs Mostyn, who sent out word by the butler that she would be in the library in a few minutes.
Chapter Eleven.Meanwhile there had been tears and trouble at the cottage, and Mary was sobbing in her mother’s arms.“But it seems so hard, dear,” she whispered; “he’s there, and waiting hopefully in the dark for me to go to him and say a few kind and loving words.”“That you can’t go and say, dear. I know—I know, but you cannot go, my darling. Now, just think a bit: you know what father would say. He is certain to know that you have been, and it would be like flying in his face. Now come, come, do be patient and wait. Some day, perhaps, his sight may come back, and if it did I’m sure father loves you too well to stand in the way of your happiness.”“But you don’t think as he does, mother dear, so don’t say you think he is right.”“I’m afraid I must, dear, much as it goes against me to say so. It couldn’t be, Mary—it couldn’t indeed, my dear; and you know what you told me—how sensible and wise poor John Grange spoke about it himself. It would be a kind of madness, Mary, dear: so come, come, wipe your poor eyes. God knows what is best for us all, and when the afflictions come let’s try to bear them patiently.”“Yes, mother,” cried Mary, hastily drying her eyes. “I will be patient and firm.”“And you see, dear, that it would not be right for you to go down to old Hannah’s. It would be, as I said, like flying in the face of father, who, I’m sure, has been as nice as could be about all you did that day.”“Yes, mother,” said Mary, with another sigh. “Then I will be patient and wait.”“That’s right, my darling. And there, now I’ll tell you something I heard from father. Poor John Grange is not forgotten; Mrs Mostyn is trying to place him in a home, and if she doesn’t, he’s to go to some friends, and she’s going to pension him for life.”Mary sighed once more, a deeper, more painful sigh, one which seemed to tear its way through her heart, as in imagination she saw the fine manly fellow who had won that heart pursuing his dark road through life alone, desolate, and a pensioner.Up at the house James Ellis was not kept waiting long before there was a rustling sound, and Mrs Mostyn came in through the French window from the conservatory, which ran along one side of the house.She looked radiant and quite young, in spite of her sixty-five years and silver hair, and there was a happy smile upon her lip that brightened the tears in her eyes, as she nodded to her agent cheerfully, and held out a great bunch of newly-cut orchids, which she held in her hand.“Smell those, James Ellis. Look at them. Are they not beautiful?”“Yes, ma’am, and if you sent them to the Guildstone Show they’d take the first prize.”“And the plants come back half spoiled. No, I don’t think I shall. I have them grown for their beauty and perfection, not out of pride and emulation. You never used to grow me and my dear husband such flowers when you were head-gardener, James.”“No, ma’am,” said Ellis, smiling at his mistress, as she sat down, drew a great shallow china bowl to her side, and began to daintily arrange the quaint, beautifully-tinted blooms according to her taste; “no, ma’am, but there were no such orchids in those days.”“Ah, no! That’s forty years ago, James Ellis. Well, what is it this morning?”“About the big oak, ma’am. It is three parts dead, and in another year it will be gone. Of course, it’s a bad time of year, but I thought if it was cut down now, I might—”“Don’t! Never say a word to me again about cutting down a tree, James Ellis,” cried his mistress angrily.The bailiff made a deprecating sign.“Let them stand till they die. Tell Barnett to plant some of that beautiful clematis to run over the dead branches. No more cutting down dead boughs while I live.”“Very good, ma’am.”“Is that all?”“No, ma’am; about the hay. Mr Nixon would be glad to have it at the market price.”“Of course, let Mr Nixon have all you can spare. And now I’m very busy, James Ellis—by the way, how is your wife, and how is Mary?”“Quite well, thank you, ma’am,” said the bailiff, hesitating, as he turned when half-way to the door.“I am glad of it. Mind that Mary has what flowers she likes for her little greenhouse.”“Thank you, ma’am, she will be very pleased, but—”“Yes! What?”“There was one other thing, ma’am. Daniel Barnett has been speaking to me about help, and there is one of Admiral Morgan’s men wants to leave to better himself. I know the young man well. An excellent gardener, who would thoroughly suit. His character is unexceptionable, and he is an excellent grower of orchids.”“Oh!” said Mrs Mostyn sharply; “and you want me to engage him to take poor John Grange’s place?”“Yes, ma’am,” said the bailiff respectfully. “The Admiral will recommend him strongly, and I don’t think you could do better.”“Then I do,” cried the lady, bringing down one hand so heavily upon the table that the water leaped out of the bowl on to the cloth. “James Ellis,” she said, rising, “come with me.”The bailiff stared, and followed the rustling silk dress out through the French window, and along the tiled floors of the conservatory, to the angle where it turned suddenly and went along by the drawing-room.There she stopped suddenly, with her eyes looking bright and tearful once more, as she pointed to the far end and whispered—“Not do better, James Ellis? Man, what do you say to that?”
Meanwhile there had been tears and trouble at the cottage, and Mary was sobbing in her mother’s arms.
“But it seems so hard, dear,” she whispered; “he’s there, and waiting hopefully in the dark for me to go to him and say a few kind and loving words.”
“That you can’t go and say, dear. I know—I know, but you cannot go, my darling. Now, just think a bit: you know what father would say. He is certain to know that you have been, and it would be like flying in his face. Now come, come, do be patient and wait. Some day, perhaps, his sight may come back, and if it did I’m sure father loves you too well to stand in the way of your happiness.”
“But you don’t think as he does, mother dear, so don’t say you think he is right.”
“I’m afraid I must, dear, much as it goes against me to say so. It couldn’t be, Mary—it couldn’t indeed, my dear; and you know what you told me—how sensible and wise poor John Grange spoke about it himself. It would be a kind of madness, Mary, dear: so come, come, wipe your poor eyes. God knows what is best for us all, and when the afflictions come let’s try to bear them patiently.”
“Yes, mother,” cried Mary, hastily drying her eyes. “I will be patient and firm.”
“And you see, dear, that it would not be right for you to go down to old Hannah’s. It would be, as I said, like flying in the face of father, who, I’m sure, has been as nice as could be about all you did that day.”
“Yes, mother,” said Mary, with another sigh. “Then I will be patient and wait.”
“That’s right, my darling. And there, now I’ll tell you something I heard from father. Poor John Grange is not forgotten; Mrs Mostyn is trying to place him in a home, and if she doesn’t, he’s to go to some friends, and she’s going to pension him for life.”
Mary sighed once more, a deeper, more painful sigh, one which seemed to tear its way through her heart, as in imagination she saw the fine manly fellow who had won that heart pursuing his dark road through life alone, desolate, and a pensioner.
Up at the house James Ellis was not kept waiting long before there was a rustling sound, and Mrs Mostyn came in through the French window from the conservatory, which ran along one side of the house.
She looked radiant and quite young, in spite of her sixty-five years and silver hair, and there was a happy smile upon her lip that brightened the tears in her eyes, as she nodded to her agent cheerfully, and held out a great bunch of newly-cut orchids, which she held in her hand.
“Smell those, James Ellis. Look at them. Are they not beautiful?”
“Yes, ma’am, and if you sent them to the Guildstone Show they’d take the first prize.”
“And the plants come back half spoiled. No, I don’t think I shall. I have them grown for their beauty and perfection, not out of pride and emulation. You never used to grow me and my dear husband such flowers when you were head-gardener, James.”
“No, ma’am,” said Ellis, smiling at his mistress, as she sat down, drew a great shallow china bowl to her side, and began to daintily arrange the quaint, beautifully-tinted blooms according to her taste; “no, ma’am, but there were no such orchids in those days.”
“Ah, no! That’s forty years ago, James Ellis. Well, what is it this morning?”
“About the big oak, ma’am. It is three parts dead, and in another year it will be gone. Of course, it’s a bad time of year, but I thought if it was cut down now, I might—”
“Don’t! Never say a word to me again about cutting down a tree, James Ellis,” cried his mistress angrily.
The bailiff made a deprecating sign.
“Let them stand till they die. Tell Barnett to plant some of that beautiful clematis to run over the dead branches. No more cutting down dead boughs while I live.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
“Is that all?”
“No, ma’am; about the hay. Mr Nixon would be glad to have it at the market price.”
“Of course, let Mr Nixon have all you can spare. And now I’m very busy, James Ellis—by the way, how is your wife, and how is Mary?”
“Quite well, thank you, ma’am,” said the bailiff, hesitating, as he turned when half-way to the door.
“I am glad of it. Mind that Mary has what flowers she likes for her little greenhouse.”
“Thank you, ma’am, she will be very pleased, but—”
“Yes! What?”
“There was one other thing, ma’am. Daniel Barnett has been speaking to me about help, and there is one of Admiral Morgan’s men wants to leave to better himself. I know the young man well. An excellent gardener, who would thoroughly suit. His character is unexceptionable, and he is an excellent grower of orchids.”
“Oh!” said Mrs Mostyn sharply; “and you want me to engage him to take poor John Grange’s place?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the bailiff respectfully. “The Admiral will recommend him strongly, and I don’t think you could do better.”
“Then I do,” cried the lady, bringing down one hand so heavily upon the table that the water leaped out of the bowl on to the cloth. “James Ellis,” she said, rising, “come with me.”
The bailiff stared, and followed the rustling silk dress out through the French window, and along the tiled floors of the conservatory, to the angle where it turned suddenly and went along by the drawing-room.
There she stopped suddenly, with her eyes looking bright and tearful once more, as she pointed to the far end and whispered—
“Not do better, James Ellis? Man, what do you say to that?”
Chapter Twelve.James Ellis did not say anything to “that” for a few moments, but stood rubbing the bridge of his nose with the hard rim of his hat, which he held in his hand.For there, to his utter astonishment, was John Grange, bright-eyed, erect, and with his face lit up with eager pleasure, busily tying up a plant to the sticks from which its strands had strayed. A few pieces of raffia grass were hung round his neck, his sleeves were turned up, and, evidently in utter ignorance of the fact that he was being watched, he bent overthe plant upon its shelf, and with deft fingers traced the course of this branch and that, and following all up in turn, tied those which were loose. After cutting the grass as he tied each knot, he examined the plant all over with his fingers till he found one wanton, wild, unnecessary shoot, and passing the knife-blade down to its origin, he was in the act of cutting it off when James Ellis made a gesture to stop him, but was arrested by Mrs Mostyn, who held up her hand and frowned.By that time the shoot was neatly taken off—cut as a gardener can cut, drawing his knife slightly and cleverly across, making one of those wounds in the right place which heal so easily in the young skin.Then Grange’s hands played about the plant for a few minutes as he felt whether it was in perfect balance, and pressed it back a little upon the shelf, measuring by a touch whether it was exactly in its place.Directly after he walked across that end of the conservatory without a moment’s hesitation, stopped before the opposite stand, and stretched out his hand to place it upon a pot, about whose contents it began to stray, was withdrawn, extended again, and then wandered to the pots on either side; but only to be finally withdrawn, the poor fellow looking puzzled, and Mrs Mostyn smiled, nodded, and placing her lips close to the bailiff’s ear, whispered—“There used to be another of those white pelargoniums standing there.”By this time John Grange’s hands were busy at a shelf above, and the lookers-on watched with keen interest for the result, for the flower he sought had been moved on to the higher range, and they were both wondering whether he would find it.They were not long kept in suspense, for John Grange’s hand touched one of the leaves the next moment, pressed it gently, raised it to his nose, and a look of satisfaction came into the poor fellow’s face as, with a smile, he bent over, lifted the pot from its place, stood it on the floor, and went down on one knee to begin examining the plant all over with fingers grown white, soft, and delicate during his illness.Mrs Mostyn kept on glancing brightly at James Ellis, as if she were saying, “Do you see that? Isn’t it wonderful?” And the bailiff stared, and kept on rubbing his nose with the hard brim of his felt hat, while he watched John Grange’s fingers run up the tender young shoots, and, without injuring a blossom, busy themselves among those where the green aphides had made a nursery, and were clustering thickly, drawing the vital juices from the succulent young stems. And then bringing all his old knowledge to bear, he knelt down on both knees, so that he could nip the pot between them with the plant sloping away from him, and with both hands at liberty, he softly removed the troublesome insects, those which he failed to catch, and which fell from their hold, dropping on to the floor instead of back among the leaves of the plant.Every flower, bud, and shoot was examined by touch before the pot was once more stood upright, the various shoots tried as to whether they were properly tied up to their sticks, and then the young man rose, lifted a plant from the lower shelf, placed it where the pelargonium had stood, and lastly, after raising it from the floor, and smelling its leaves, arranged it in the place on the shelf where he had left it a couple of days before his accident.The next minute he walked to where another was standing, as if led by a wonderful instinct, though it was only the result of years of care, application, and method, for he had worked in that conservatory till he knew the position of every ornamental plant as well as he knew its requirements, how long it would last, take to flower, and with what other kind he would replace it from one end of the year to the other.Mrs Mostyn and her bailiff stood watching John Grange for quite half-an-hour, in what seemed to the latter almost a miraculous performance, and in those hasty minutes they both plainly saw the man’s devotion to his work, his love for the plants he cultivated, and how thoroughly he was at home in the house and interested in what had taken place in his enforced absence. He showed them, by his actions, that he knew how much the plumbago had grown on the trellis, how long the shoots were that had been made on the layer, and his fingers ran from one mazy cluster of buds and flowers to another; hard-wooded shrubby stems were examined for scale, which was carefully removed; and every now and then he paused and placed his hands on the exact place to raise up some fragrant plant—lemon verbena or heliotrope—to inhale its sweet odour and replace it with a sigh of satisfaction.James Ellis watched the young gardener, expecting moment by moment, and, in his then frame of mind, almost hoping to see him knock down some pot on to the tiled floor, or stumble over some flower-stand. But he watched in vain, and he thought the while that if John Grange, suffering as he was from that awful infliction, could be so deft and clever there amongst that varied collection of flowers, his work in the other houses among melons, pines, cucumbers, tomatoes, and grapes would soon grow simplicity itself, for, educated as he was by long experience, he would teach himself to thin grapes by touch, train the fruit-bearing stems of the cucumber and melon vines, and remove the unnecessary shoots of the tomatoes with the greatest ease. There would be a hundred things he could do, and each year he would grow more accustomed to working by touch. And as James Ellis thought, he, an old gardener, shut his eyes fast, and, in imagination, saw before him a fresh growing tomato plant, and beginning at the bottom, felt whether it was stiff and healthy. Then ran up his fingers past the few leaves to the first great cluster of large fruit, removed the young shoots which came from the axils of the leaves, and ran up and up the stem feeling the clusters gradually growing smaller till higher up there were fully-developed blossoms, and higher still tufts of buds and tender leaves with their surface covered with metallic golden down.He started from his musing to gaze open-eyed at his mistress, who had touched his arm, and now signed to him to follow her softly back to the library window, and into the room.“Why, James Ellis!” she said petulantly, “were you asleep?”“No, ma’am, I was shutting my eyes to try how it would be amongst the plants.”“Ah,” she said, with the tears now brimming up into her eyes; “isn’t it wonderful? Poor fellow, I cannot tell you how happy it has made me feel. Why, James Ellis, I had been thinking that he had to face a desolate, blank existence, and I was nearly heart-broken about him, and all the time, as you saw, he was going about happy and light-hearted, actually smiling over his work.”“Yes, ma’am,” said the bailiff rather gruffly, “it seems very wonderful. I don’t think he can be quite blind.”“What!”“His eyes look as bright as any one else’s, ma’am.”“You think then that he is an impostor?”“Oh, no, ma’am, I wouldn’t say that.”“No, James Ellis, you had better not,” said his mistress tartly. “Well, you saw what he can do.”“Yes, ma’am, and I was very much surprised. I did not know he was here;” and Ellis spoke as if he felt rather aggrieved.“I suppose not,” said Mrs Mostyn dryly. “I saw him in old Tummus’s garden yesterday, and I walked across and fetched him here this morning to see what he could do in the conservatory, and really, blind as he is, he seems more clever and careful than Daniel Barnett.”James Ellis coughed a little, in a dry, nervous way.“And now I repeat my question, what do you say to that?”“Well, ma’am, I—er—that is—”“You want me to engage one of Admiral Morgan’s men to take poor John Grange’s place?”“Yes, ma’am,” said the bailiff, recovering himself; “and I don’t think, you can do better.”“But I don’t want another man.”The bailiff shrugged his shoulders, and looked deprecatingly at his mistress.“I know you like the garden and houses to look well, ma’am, and we’re two hands short.”“No, we are not, James Ellis. Old Dunton has done nothing in the garden but look on for years. I only wished for my poor husband’s old servant to end his days in peace; and do you think I am going to supersede that poor fellow whom we have just been watching?”“But, pardon me, ma’am, there are many things he could never do.”“Then Barnett must do them, and I shall make a change for poor John Grange’s sake: I shall give up showy flowers and grow all kinds that shed perfume. That will do. It is impossible for Grange to be head-gardener, but he will retain his old position, and you may tell Barnett that Grange is to do exactly what he feels is suitable to him. He is not to be interfered with in any way.”“Yes, ma’am,” said the bailiff respectfully.“If he is so wonderful now, I don’t know what he will be in a few months. Now, you understand: John Grange is to continue in his work as if nothing had happened, and— you here?”For at that moment two hands busy tying up some loose strands of a Bougainvillea dropped to their owner’s side, and poor John Grange, who had come up to the window unheard, uttered a low cry as he stood with his head bent forward and hands half extended toward the speaker.“Mrs Mostyn—dear mistress,” he faltered, “Heaven bless you for those words!”“God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, John Grange,” she said softly, as she laid her hand upon one of those extended toward her as if to reach light in darkness; “should not His servants strive to follow that which they are taught?”The blank, bright eyes gazed wildly toward her, and then the head was bowed down over the hand which was touched by two quivering lips, as reverently as if it had been that of a queen.Five minutes later James Ellis was on his way back to the gardens, thinking it was time that Mary went away from home to begin life as a governess, or as attendant to some invalid dame.
James Ellis did not say anything to “that” for a few moments, but stood rubbing the bridge of his nose with the hard rim of his hat, which he held in his hand.
For there, to his utter astonishment, was John Grange, bright-eyed, erect, and with his face lit up with eager pleasure, busily tying up a plant to the sticks from which its strands had strayed. A few pieces of raffia grass were hung round his neck, his sleeves were turned up, and, evidently in utter ignorance of the fact that he was being watched, he bent overthe plant upon its shelf, and with deft fingers traced the course of this branch and that, and following all up in turn, tied those which were loose. After cutting the grass as he tied each knot, he examined the plant all over with his fingers till he found one wanton, wild, unnecessary shoot, and passing the knife-blade down to its origin, he was in the act of cutting it off when James Ellis made a gesture to stop him, but was arrested by Mrs Mostyn, who held up her hand and frowned.
By that time the shoot was neatly taken off—cut as a gardener can cut, drawing his knife slightly and cleverly across, making one of those wounds in the right place which heal so easily in the young skin.
Then Grange’s hands played about the plant for a few minutes as he felt whether it was in perfect balance, and pressed it back a little upon the shelf, measuring by a touch whether it was exactly in its place.
Directly after he walked across that end of the conservatory without a moment’s hesitation, stopped before the opposite stand, and stretched out his hand to place it upon a pot, about whose contents it began to stray, was withdrawn, extended again, and then wandered to the pots on either side; but only to be finally withdrawn, the poor fellow looking puzzled, and Mrs Mostyn smiled, nodded, and placing her lips close to the bailiff’s ear, whispered—
“There used to be another of those white pelargoniums standing there.”
By this time John Grange’s hands were busy at a shelf above, and the lookers-on watched with keen interest for the result, for the flower he sought had been moved on to the higher range, and they were both wondering whether he would find it.
They were not long kept in suspense, for John Grange’s hand touched one of the leaves the next moment, pressed it gently, raised it to his nose, and a look of satisfaction came into the poor fellow’s face as, with a smile, he bent over, lifted the pot from its place, stood it on the floor, and went down on one knee to begin examining the plant all over with fingers grown white, soft, and delicate during his illness.
Mrs Mostyn kept on glancing brightly at James Ellis, as if she were saying, “Do you see that? Isn’t it wonderful?” And the bailiff stared, and kept on rubbing his nose with the hard brim of his felt hat, while he watched John Grange’s fingers run up the tender young shoots, and, without injuring a blossom, busy themselves among those where the green aphides had made a nursery, and were clustering thickly, drawing the vital juices from the succulent young stems. And then bringing all his old knowledge to bear, he knelt down on both knees, so that he could nip the pot between them with the plant sloping away from him, and with both hands at liberty, he softly removed the troublesome insects, those which he failed to catch, and which fell from their hold, dropping on to the floor instead of back among the leaves of the plant.
Every flower, bud, and shoot was examined by touch before the pot was once more stood upright, the various shoots tried as to whether they were properly tied up to their sticks, and then the young man rose, lifted a plant from the lower shelf, placed it where the pelargonium had stood, and lastly, after raising it from the floor, and smelling its leaves, arranged it in the place on the shelf where he had left it a couple of days before his accident.
The next minute he walked to where another was standing, as if led by a wonderful instinct, though it was only the result of years of care, application, and method, for he had worked in that conservatory till he knew the position of every ornamental plant as well as he knew its requirements, how long it would last, take to flower, and with what other kind he would replace it from one end of the year to the other.
Mrs Mostyn and her bailiff stood watching John Grange for quite half-an-hour, in what seemed to the latter almost a miraculous performance, and in those hasty minutes they both plainly saw the man’s devotion to his work, his love for the plants he cultivated, and how thoroughly he was at home in the house and interested in what had taken place in his enforced absence. He showed them, by his actions, that he knew how much the plumbago had grown on the trellis, how long the shoots were that had been made on the layer, and his fingers ran from one mazy cluster of buds and flowers to another; hard-wooded shrubby stems were examined for scale, which was carefully removed; and every now and then he paused and placed his hands on the exact place to raise up some fragrant plant—lemon verbena or heliotrope—to inhale its sweet odour and replace it with a sigh of satisfaction.
James Ellis watched the young gardener, expecting moment by moment, and, in his then frame of mind, almost hoping to see him knock down some pot on to the tiled floor, or stumble over some flower-stand. But he watched in vain, and he thought the while that if John Grange, suffering as he was from that awful infliction, could be so deft and clever there amongst that varied collection of flowers, his work in the other houses among melons, pines, cucumbers, tomatoes, and grapes would soon grow simplicity itself, for, educated as he was by long experience, he would teach himself to thin grapes by touch, train the fruit-bearing stems of the cucumber and melon vines, and remove the unnecessary shoots of the tomatoes with the greatest ease. There would be a hundred things he could do, and each year he would grow more accustomed to working by touch. And as James Ellis thought, he, an old gardener, shut his eyes fast, and, in imagination, saw before him a fresh growing tomato plant, and beginning at the bottom, felt whether it was stiff and healthy. Then ran up his fingers past the few leaves to the first great cluster of large fruit, removed the young shoots which came from the axils of the leaves, and ran up and up the stem feeling the clusters gradually growing smaller till higher up there were fully-developed blossoms, and higher still tufts of buds and tender leaves with their surface covered with metallic golden down.
He started from his musing to gaze open-eyed at his mistress, who had touched his arm, and now signed to him to follow her softly back to the library window, and into the room.
“Why, James Ellis!” she said petulantly, “were you asleep?”
“No, ma’am, I was shutting my eyes to try how it would be amongst the plants.”
“Ah,” she said, with the tears now brimming up into her eyes; “isn’t it wonderful? Poor fellow, I cannot tell you how happy it has made me feel. Why, James Ellis, I had been thinking that he had to face a desolate, blank existence, and I was nearly heart-broken about him, and all the time, as you saw, he was going about happy and light-hearted, actually smiling over his work.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the bailiff rather gruffly, “it seems very wonderful. I don’t think he can be quite blind.”
“What!”
“His eyes look as bright as any one else’s, ma’am.”
“You think then that he is an impostor?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, I wouldn’t say that.”
“No, James Ellis, you had better not,” said his mistress tartly. “Well, you saw what he can do.”
“Yes, ma’am, and I was very much surprised. I did not know he was here;” and Ellis spoke as if he felt rather aggrieved.
“I suppose not,” said Mrs Mostyn dryly. “I saw him in old Tummus’s garden yesterday, and I walked across and fetched him here this morning to see what he could do in the conservatory, and really, blind as he is, he seems more clever and careful than Daniel Barnett.”
James Ellis coughed a little, in a dry, nervous way.
“And now I repeat my question, what do you say to that?”
“Well, ma’am, I—er—that is—”
“You want me to engage one of Admiral Morgan’s men to take poor John Grange’s place?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the bailiff, recovering himself; “and I don’t think, you can do better.”
“But I don’t want another man.”
The bailiff shrugged his shoulders, and looked deprecatingly at his mistress.
“I know you like the garden and houses to look well, ma’am, and we’re two hands short.”
“No, we are not, James Ellis. Old Dunton has done nothing in the garden but look on for years. I only wished for my poor husband’s old servant to end his days in peace; and do you think I am going to supersede that poor fellow whom we have just been watching?”
“But, pardon me, ma’am, there are many things he could never do.”
“Then Barnett must do them, and I shall make a change for poor John Grange’s sake: I shall give up showy flowers and grow all kinds that shed perfume. That will do. It is impossible for Grange to be head-gardener, but he will retain his old position, and you may tell Barnett that Grange is to do exactly what he feels is suitable to him. He is not to be interfered with in any way.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the bailiff respectfully.
“If he is so wonderful now, I don’t know what he will be in a few months. Now, you understand: John Grange is to continue in his work as if nothing had happened, and— you here?”
For at that moment two hands busy tying up some loose strands of a Bougainvillea dropped to their owner’s side, and poor John Grange, who had come up to the window unheard, uttered a low cry as he stood with his head bent forward and hands half extended toward the speaker.
“Mrs Mostyn—dear mistress,” he faltered, “Heaven bless you for those words!”
“God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, John Grange,” she said softly, as she laid her hand upon one of those extended toward her as if to reach light in darkness; “should not His servants strive to follow that which they are taught?”
The blank, bright eyes gazed wildly toward her, and then the head was bowed down over the hand which was touched by two quivering lips, as reverently as if it had been that of a queen.
Five minutes later James Ellis was on his way back to the gardens, thinking it was time that Mary went away from home to begin life as a governess, or as attendant to some invalid dame.
Chapter Thirteen.James Ellis went straight to the gardens, and had no difficulty in finding Daniel Barnett, whose voice he heard sounding loud, though smothered, in the closely-shut orchid-house, where he was abusing one of the under-gardeners.“I don’t care—I don’t believe it,” he cried angrily, as Ellis opened the door slowly; and then came: “Hi! What idiot’s that? Don’t let all the cold wind in out of the garden. I say that glossum and that cattleya has been moved. Hi! Are you going to shut that door? Oh, it’s you, Mr Ellis. I thought it was one of the lads; they will not be careful with those doors.”“Send him away,” said the bailiff.“You can go,” said Barnett shortly, to the man, “and mind, I mean to know who moved those orchids. It was done out of opposition. I changed ’em there, and that’s where they’re to stand.”“Well, I didn’t move ’em,” growled the man.“Didn’t move them,sir” cried Barnett; but at that moment the door was closed with a bang. “I shall have to get rid of that fellow, Mr Ellis. He don’t like me being promoted, and he has been moving my orchids out o’ orkardness. Ha, ha! Not so very bad, that.”“He did not move them,” said Ellis grimly.“Who did, then?”“John Grange.”“John Grange?”“Yes; I dare say he has been here. He has been in the big conservatory ever so long, tying up plants and clearing off dead stuff.”“John Grange! What, has he got back his sight?”“No; the mistress fetched him over from old Tummus’s cottage, and he has been hard at work ever so long.”“But there wasn’t no clearing up to do,” cried Barnett, flushing angrily.“Wasn’t there? Well, he was at it, and you may tell that fellow he won’t be wanted, for John Grange is going to stay.”Daniel Barnett said something which, fortunately, was inaudible, and need not be recorded; and he turned pale through the harvest brown sun-tan with mortification and jealous rage.“Why, you don’t mean to say, Mr Ellis, sir,” he cried, “that you’ve been a party to bringing that poor creature back here to make himself a nuisance and get meddling with my plants?”“No, sir, I do not,” said the bailiff sharply; “it’s your mistress’s work. She has a way of doing what she likes, and you’d better talk to her about that.”He turned upon his heel and left the orchid-house, and as soon as he was gone the new head-gardener stood watching him till he was out of hearing, and then, doubling up his fist, he struck out from the shoulder at one of the offending pots standing at a corner—a lovely mauve-tinted cattleya in full blossom—and sent it flying to shivers upon the floor.It was the kind of blow he felt in his rage that he would have liked to direct at John Grange’s head, but as in his unreasonable jealous spite it was only a good-sizedearthenware pot, the result was very unsatisfactory, for the flower was broken, the pot shattered, and a couple of red spots appeared on Daniel Barnett’s knuckles, which began to bleed freely.“That’s it, is it?” he muttered. “He’s to be kept here like a pet monkey, I suppose. Well, he’s not going to interfere with my work, and so I tell him. Don’t want no blind beggars about. A silly old fool: that’s what she is—a silly old fool; and I should like to tell her so. So he’s to come here and do what he likes, is he? Well, we shall see about that. It’s indecent, that’s what it is. Why can’t he act like a man, and take it as he should, not come whining about here like a blind beggar of Bethnal Green? But if he can’t see, others can. Perhaps Mr John Grange mayn’t stop here very long. Who knows?” Daniel Barnett, for some reason or another, uttered a low-toned, unpleasant laugh, and then began to pick up the pieces of the broken pot, and examine the injured orchid, to see what portions would live; but after a few minutes’ inspection he bundled all into a wooden basket, carried it out to the rubbish heap, and called one of the men to sweep up the soil upon the red-tiled floor.
James Ellis went straight to the gardens, and had no difficulty in finding Daniel Barnett, whose voice he heard sounding loud, though smothered, in the closely-shut orchid-house, where he was abusing one of the under-gardeners.
“I don’t care—I don’t believe it,” he cried angrily, as Ellis opened the door slowly; and then came: “Hi! What idiot’s that? Don’t let all the cold wind in out of the garden. I say that glossum and that cattleya has been moved. Hi! Are you going to shut that door? Oh, it’s you, Mr Ellis. I thought it was one of the lads; they will not be careful with those doors.”
“Send him away,” said the bailiff.
“You can go,” said Barnett shortly, to the man, “and mind, I mean to know who moved those orchids. It was done out of opposition. I changed ’em there, and that’s where they’re to stand.”
“Well, I didn’t move ’em,” growled the man.
“Didn’t move them,sir” cried Barnett; but at that moment the door was closed with a bang. “I shall have to get rid of that fellow, Mr Ellis. He don’t like me being promoted, and he has been moving my orchids out o’ orkardness. Ha, ha! Not so very bad, that.”
“He did not move them,” said Ellis grimly.
“Who did, then?”
“John Grange.”
“John Grange?”
“Yes; I dare say he has been here. He has been in the big conservatory ever so long, tying up plants and clearing off dead stuff.”
“John Grange! What, has he got back his sight?”
“No; the mistress fetched him over from old Tummus’s cottage, and he has been hard at work ever so long.”
“But there wasn’t no clearing up to do,” cried Barnett, flushing angrily.
“Wasn’t there? Well, he was at it, and you may tell that fellow he won’t be wanted, for John Grange is going to stay.”
Daniel Barnett said something which, fortunately, was inaudible, and need not be recorded; and he turned pale through the harvest brown sun-tan with mortification and jealous rage.
“Why, you don’t mean to say, Mr Ellis, sir,” he cried, “that you’ve been a party to bringing that poor creature back here to make himself a nuisance and get meddling with my plants?”
“No, sir, I do not,” said the bailiff sharply; “it’s your mistress’s work. She has a way of doing what she likes, and you’d better talk to her about that.”
He turned upon his heel and left the orchid-house, and as soon as he was gone the new head-gardener stood watching him till he was out of hearing, and then, doubling up his fist, he struck out from the shoulder at one of the offending pots standing at a corner—a lovely mauve-tinted cattleya in full blossom—and sent it flying to shivers upon the floor.
It was the kind of blow he felt in his rage that he would have liked to direct at John Grange’s head, but as in his unreasonable jealous spite it was only a good-sizedearthenware pot, the result was very unsatisfactory, for the flower was broken, the pot shattered, and a couple of red spots appeared on Daniel Barnett’s knuckles, which began to bleed freely.
“That’s it, is it?” he muttered. “He’s to be kept here like a pet monkey, I suppose. Well, he’s not going to interfere with my work, and so I tell him. Don’t want no blind beggars about. A silly old fool: that’s what she is—a silly old fool; and I should like to tell her so. So he’s to come here and do what he likes, is he? Well, we shall see about that. It’s indecent, that’s what it is. Why can’t he act like a man, and take it as he should, not come whining about here like a blind beggar of Bethnal Green? But if he can’t see, others can. Perhaps Mr John Grange mayn’t stop here very long. Who knows?” Daniel Barnett, for some reason or another, uttered a low-toned, unpleasant laugh, and then began to pick up the pieces of the broken pot, and examine the injured orchid, to see what portions would live; but after a few minutes’ inspection he bundled all into a wooden basket, carried it out to the rubbish heap, and called one of the men to sweep up the soil upon the red-tiled floor.
Chapter Fourteen.The days glided by and John Grange’s powers developed in a wonderful way. He busied himself about the glass-houses from morning to night, but he did not return to the bothy in the grounds, preferring to go on lodging with old Hannah and her husband.At first the men used to watch him, leaving off their work to talk together when he passed down the garden, and first one and then another stood ready to lend him a helping hand; but this never seemed to be needed, Grange making sure by touching a wall, fence, shrub, or some familiar object whose position he knew, and then walking steadily along with no other help than a stick, and finding his way anywhere about the grounds.“It caps me, lads!” said old Tummus; “but there, I dunno: he allus was one of the clever ones. Look at him now; who’d ever think that he was blind as a mole? Why, he walks as upright as I do.”There was a roar of laughter at this.“Well, so he do,” cried old Tummus indignantly.“That ain’t saying much, old man,” said one of the gardeners; “why, you go crawling over the ground like a rip-hook out for a walk.”“Ah, never mind,” grumbled old Tummus, “perhaps if you’d bent down to your work as I have, you’d be as much warped. Don’t you get leaving tools and barrers and garden-rollers all over the place now.”“Why not?”“’Cause we, none on us, want to see that poor lad fall over ’em, and break his legs. Eh?”No one did; and from that hour a new form of tidiness was observed in Mrs Mostyn’s garden.Daniel Barnett said very little, but quite avoided Grange, who accepted the position, divining as he did the jealous feeling of his new superior, and devoted himself patiently to such tasks as he could perform, but instinctively standing on his guard against him whom he felt to be his enemy.A couple of months had gone by when, one day, Mrs Mostyn came upon Grange in the conservatory, busily watering various plants which a touch had informed him required water.“Do you think it would hurt some of the best orchids to make a good stand full of them here for a couple of days, Grange?” said his mistress. “I have a friend coming down who takes a great deal of interest in these plants.”“There is always the risk of giving them a check, ma’am,” said Grange quietly; “but if you wouldn’t mind the place being kept rather close, and a little fire being started to heat the pipes, they would be quite right.”“Oh, do what you think best,” said Mrs Mostyn, “and make me a good handsome show by the day after to-morrow. Just there, between these two windows.”“If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, they would be better on the other side against the house. They would show off better, and be less likely to get a check if a window was opened, as might happen.”“Of course, John Grange. Then put them there. I want a good, brilliant show, mind, to please my friend.”“They shall be there, ma’am. I’ll get a stand cleared at once, ma’am, and put the orchids on to-morrow.”By that evening one of the large stands was clear, all but a few flowers to keep it from looking blank, and late on the next afternoon Daniel Barnett encountered old Tummus.“Hullo, where are you going with that long barrow?”“Orchid-house, to fetch pots.”“What for?”“Muster Grange wants me to help him make up a stand in the zervyturry.”Daniel Barnett walked off muttering—“I’m nobody, of course. It ain’t my garden. Better make him head at once.”“Beautiful! Lovely!” cried Mrs Mostyn, as she stood in front of the lovely bank of blossoms; “and capitally arranged, John Grange. Why, it is quite a flower show.”That evening the guest arrived to dinner in the person of a great physician, whose sole relaxation was his garden; and directly after breakfast the next morning, full of triumph about the perfection of her orchids, Mrs Mostyn led the way into the conservatory, just as John Grange hurried out at the garden entrance, as if to avoid being seen.“A minute too late,” said the doctor, smiling; “but I thought you said that the man who attends to this place was quite blind?”“He is! That is the man, but no one would think it. Now you shall see what a lovely stand of orchids he has arranged by touch. It is really wonderful what a blind man can do.”“Yes, it is wonderful, sometimes,” replied the visitor. “I have noticed many cases where Nature seems to supply these afflicted people with another sense, and—”“Oh, dear me! Oh, you tiresome, stupid man! My poor flowers! I wouldn’t for a hundred pounds have had this happen, and just too when I wanted it all as a surprise for you. That’s why he hurried out.”“Ah, dear me!” said the great physician, raising his glasses to his eye. “Such lovely specimens, too. Poor fellow! He must have slipped. A sad accident due to his blindness, of course, while watering, I presume.”For there, on the red-tiled floor of the conservatory, lay an overturned watering-can, whose contents had formed a muddy puddle, in which were about a dozen broken pots just as they had been knocked down from the stand, the bulbs snapped, beautiful trusses of blossom shivered and crushed, and the whole display ruined by the gap made in its midst.The tears of vexation stood in Mrs Mostyn’s eyes, but she turned very calm directly as she walked back into the drawing-room and rang, looking white now with anger and annoyance.“Send John Grange to the conservatory directly,” she said to the butler, and then walked back with her guest.Five minutes later John Grange came in from the garden, and the great physician watched him keenly, as the young man’s eye looked full of trouble and his face twitched a little as he went towards where he believed his mistress to be.“What is the meaning of this horrible destruction, Grange?” she cried.“I don’t know, ma’am,” he replied excitedly. “I came in and found the pots all down only a few moments ago.”“That will do,” she said sternly, and she turned away with her guest. “Even he cannot speak the truth, doctor. Oh, what cowards some men can be!”
The days glided by and John Grange’s powers developed in a wonderful way. He busied himself about the glass-houses from morning to night, but he did not return to the bothy in the grounds, preferring to go on lodging with old Hannah and her husband.
At first the men used to watch him, leaving off their work to talk together when he passed down the garden, and first one and then another stood ready to lend him a helping hand; but this never seemed to be needed, Grange making sure by touching a wall, fence, shrub, or some familiar object whose position he knew, and then walking steadily along with no other help than a stick, and finding his way anywhere about the grounds.
“It caps me, lads!” said old Tummus; “but there, I dunno: he allus was one of the clever ones. Look at him now; who’d ever think that he was blind as a mole? Why, he walks as upright as I do.”
There was a roar of laughter at this.
“Well, so he do,” cried old Tummus indignantly.
“That ain’t saying much, old man,” said one of the gardeners; “why, you go crawling over the ground like a rip-hook out for a walk.”
“Ah, never mind,” grumbled old Tummus, “perhaps if you’d bent down to your work as I have, you’d be as much warped. Don’t you get leaving tools and barrers and garden-rollers all over the place now.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause we, none on us, want to see that poor lad fall over ’em, and break his legs. Eh?”
No one did; and from that hour a new form of tidiness was observed in Mrs Mostyn’s garden.
Daniel Barnett said very little, but quite avoided Grange, who accepted the position, divining as he did the jealous feeling of his new superior, and devoted himself patiently to such tasks as he could perform, but instinctively standing on his guard against him whom he felt to be his enemy.
A couple of months had gone by when, one day, Mrs Mostyn came upon Grange in the conservatory, busily watering various plants which a touch had informed him required water.
“Do you think it would hurt some of the best orchids to make a good stand full of them here for a couple of days, Grange?” said his mistress. “I have a friend coming down who takes a great deal of interest in these plants.”
“There is always the risk of giving them a check, ma’am,” said Grange quietly; “but if you wouldn’t mind the place being kept rather close, and a little fire being started to heat the pipes, they would be quite right.”
“Oh, do what you think best,” said Mrs Mostyn, “and make me a good handsome show by the day after to-morrow. Just there, between these two windows.”
“If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, they would be better on the other side against the house. They would show off better, and be less likely to get a check if a window was opened, as might happen.”
“Of course, John Grange. Then put them there. I want a good, brilliant show, mind, to please my friend.”
“They shall be there, ma’am. I’ll get a stand cleared at once, ma’am, and put the orchids on to-morrow.”
By that evening one of the large stands was clear, all but a few flowers to keep it from looking blank, and late on the next afternoon Daniel Barnett encountered old Tummus.
“Hullo, where are you going with that long barrow?”
“Orchid-house, to fetch pots.”
“What for?”
“Muster Grange wants me to help him make up a stand in the zervyturry.”
Daniel Barnett walked off muttering—
“I’m nobody, of course. It ain’t my garden. Better make him head at once.”
“Beautiful! Lovely!” cried Mrs Mostyn, as she stood in front of the lovely bank of blossoms; “and capitally arranged, John Grange. Why, it is quite a flower show.”
That evening the guest arrived to dinner in the person of a great physician, whose sole relaxation was his garden; and directly after breakfast the next morning, full of triumph about the perfection of her orchids, Mrs Mostyn led the way into the conservatory, just as John Grange hurried out at the garden entrance, as if to avoid being seen.
“A minute too late,” said the doctor, smiling; “but I thought you said that the man who attends to this place was quite blind?”
“He is! That is the man, but no one would think it. Now you shall see what a lovely stand of orchids he has arranged by touch. It is really wonderful what a blind man can do.”
“Yes, it is wonderful, sometimes,” replied the visitor. “I have noticed many cases where Nature seems to supply these afflicted people with another sense, and—”
“Oh, dear me! Oh, you tiresome, stupid man! My poor flowers! I wouldn’t for a hundred pounds have had this happen, and just too when I wanted it all as a surprise for you. That’s why he hurried out.”
“Ah, dear me!” said the great physician, raising his glasses to his eye. “Such lovely specimens, too. Poor fellow! He must have slipped. A sad accident due to his blindness, of course, while watering, I presume.”
For there, on the red-tiled floor of the conservatory, lay an overturned watering-can, whose contents had formed a muddy puddle, in which were about a dozen broken pots just as they had been knocked down from the stand, the bulbs snapped, beautiful trusses of blossom shivered and crushed, and the whole display ruined by the gap made in its midst.
The tears of vexation stood in Mrs Mostyn’s eyes, but she turned very calm directly as she walked back into the drawing-room and rang, looking white now with anger and annoyance.
“Send John Grange to the conservatory directly,” she said to the butler, and then walked back with her guest.
Five minutes later John Grange came in from the garden, and the great physician watched him keenly, as the young man’s eye looked full of trouble and his face twitched a little as he went towards where he believed his mistress to be.
“What is the meaning of this horrible destruction, Grange?” she cried.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” he replied excitedly. “I came in and found the pots all down only a few moments ago.”
“That will do,” she said sternly, and she turned away with her guest. “Even he cannot speak the truth, doctor. Oh, what cowards some men can be!”
Chapter Fifteen.Mrs Mostyn said but little more, though she thought a great deal. John Grange gave her his explanation. He had, he said, been into the conservatory twice that morning; and on the second visit brought the can of water to give the orchids a final freshening, when he felt something crush beneath his feet, and, startled and horrified at finding what was wrong, he had dropped the pot of water and added to the mishap.Mrs Mostyn said, “That will do,” rather coldly; and the young man went away crushed, feeling that she did not believe him, and that the morning’s business had, in her disappointment, cast him down from his high position.A day or two later he tried to renew the matter, but he received a short “That will do”; and, humbled and disheartened, he went away, feeling that his position at The Hollows would never be the same again.It was talked over at the cottage, where Mary listened in agony.“Pity he did not own to having met with an accident at once,” said her father. “Of course it is no more than one expected, it was sure to come some time; but it was a pity he was such a coward and took, refuge in a lie. Just like a child: but, poor fellow, his accident has made him weak.”Mary flushed up in her agony and indignation, for it was as if her father had accused her of untruthfulness; but an imploring look from her mother, just as she was going to speak, silenced her, and she suffered to herself till her father had gone, and then indignantly declared that John Grange was incapable of telling a lie.The trouble was discussed too pretty largely at old Hannah’s cottage, where Tummus’s wife gave it as her opinion that it was “one of they dratted cats.” They was always breaking something, and if the truth was known it was “the missus’s Prusshun Tom, as she allers called Shah.”“I don’t want to accuse anybody,” said John Grange sadly, as he sat with a piteous look in his blank eyes; “but I’m afraid one of the servants must have stumbled up against the stand, and was then afraid to speak.”“Burr-urr!” growled old Tummus, who was devouring his late meal—a meat tea, the solid part consisting of a great hunch of bread and upon it a large piece of cold boiled, streaky, salt pork.“Don’t make noises like that at the table, Tummus,” said his wife. “What will Mr Grange think of you?”“Only said ‘Burr-urr!’” grumbled old Tummus.“Well, you shouldn’t; and I do wish you would use the proper knife and fork like a Christian, and keep your pork on your plate.”“This here’s quite sharp enough, missus,” said the old man, cutting the piece of pork with the blade of his great pruning-knife, and re-arranging the piece under his perfectly clean but dirty-looking, garden-stained thumb.“But it looks so bad, cutting like that; and how do we know what you used that knife for last.”“Well, Muster John Grange can’t see, can he?”“No, no, I cannot see, man,” said Grange sadly. “Go on in your own way as if I were not here.”“Burr-urr!” growled old Tummus again.“Why, what is the matter with the man?” cried his wife. “Have you not meat enough?”“Aye, it’s right enow. I was only thinking about them orchards. I know.”“Know what?” said his wife.“Who done it. I see him go there and come away.”“What?” cried John Grange excitedly, as he turned his eyes towards the old gardener.“I see Muster Dan Barnett come away from the conservatory all in a hurry like, d’re’ckly after you’d been there.”“You saw Dan Barnett?”“Aye, that’s so. I see him: did it out o’ spite ’cause the missus didn’t give him the job.”“Tummus, what are you a-saying of?” cried his wife, as the old man’s words made Grange start excitedly from his chair. “Why, if Dan’l Barnett heared as you said that, you’d be turned away at a moment’s notice.”“I don’t keer; it’s the solomon truth,” said old Tummus, cutting off a cubic piece of pork and lifting it from his bread with the point of his pruning-knife.“It can’t be anything of the sort, so hold your tongue. There, there, Mr Grange, my dear. Don’t you take any notice of his silly clat. Have another cup of tea: here’s quite a beauty left.”“You say you saw Daniel Barnett come from the conservatory that morning?” cried Grange excitedly; and there was a wild look of agony in his eyes as he spoke.“Nay, nay, he didn’t, my dear,” cried old Hannah; “it’s all his nonsense. Just see what you’ve done, Tummus, with your rubbishing stuff.”“Aye, but I did see him come out, and I see him go in all of a hurry like,” said old Tummus sturdily.“Where were you?”“In the shrubbery, raking up the dead leaves as he told me to the night afore, and forgotten as I was there so near.”“And you were busy raking the leaves?” said Grange.“Nay, I warn’t; I was a-watching on him, and left off, for I didn’t see what he wanted there.”“No, no, it’s impossible; he would have been so careful,” said Grange hurriedly.“Keerful?” cried old Tummus contemptuously: “he did it o’ purpose. I know: out o’ spite.”“Tummus, you’re driving us in a coach and four into the workhouse,” cried his wife passionately.“Good job too. I don’t keer. I say Dan Barnett did it out o’ spite, and I’ll go straight to the missus and tell her.”“No,” said John Grange sternly. “Not a word. What you say is impossible. Daniel Barnett does not like me, and he resents my being here, but he could not have been guilty of so cowardly, so contemptible an act.”“Burr-urr!” growled old Tummus; “wouldn’t he? I know.”“Whatever you know,” said John Grange sternly, “you must keep to yourself.”“What, and let the missus think you done it?”“The truth comes to the surface some time or another,” said John Grange very firmly. “I cannot believe this is the truth, but even if it is I forbid you to speak.”“Yes; he’d better,” put in old Hannah, shaking her head severely at her husband; and the meal was finished in silence.Another month had passed, and John Grange’s position remained unchanged. He worked in the houses, and tied up plants by the green walks; but Mrs Mostyn never came round to stand by his side and talk to him regarding her flowers, and ask questions about the raising of fresh choice plants for the garden. In those painful minutes he had fallen very low in her estimation, and was no longer the same in her eyes, only the ordinary gardener whom she kept on out of charity, and whom she would keep on to the end of her days.John Grange felt it bitterly, and longed to get away from a place which caused him intense agony, for, from time to time, he could not help knowing that Daniel Barnett went up to smoke a pipe with James Ellis, and talk about the garden.But the sufferer was helpless. He could not decide what to do if he went away, for there was no talk now of getting him into an asylum; and in spite of all his strong endeavours and determination to be manly and firm, he felt that it would be impossible to go away from The Hollows and leave Mary Ellis.From time to time Barnett saw little things which convinced him that so long as John Grange was near he would have no chance of making any headway with the object of his pursuit, and this made him so morose and bitter that he would often walk up and down one of the shrubberies on dark nights, inveighing against his rival, who still did not accept his position, but hung on in a place where he was not wanted.“The girl’s mad about him,” he muttered, “absolutely mad, and—”He stopped short, thoroughly startled by the thoughts which came into his mind. It was as if a temptation had been whispered to him, and, looking sharply round in the darkness, he hurried back to the bothy. That night he lay awake tossing about till morning. That very day he had encountered John Grange twice at the end of the long green walk, with its sloping sides and velvet turf, at the top of which slopes were long beds filled with dahlias. These John Grange was busy tying up to their sticks, and, as if unable to keep away, Barnett hung about that walk, and bullied the man at one end who was cutting the grass by hand where the machine could not be used; and at last made the poor fellow so wroth that he threw down his scythe as soon as Barnett had gone, and said he might do it himself.Barnett came to the other end a couple of hundred yards away, and began to find fault with the way in which the dahlias were being tied up.But John Grange bore it all without a word, though his lips quivered a little.This was repeated, and Grange felt that it was the beginning of a course of persecution to drive him away.Barnett went down the long green path till nearly at the end, when the dinner-bell began to ring, and just then he came upon the scythe lying where the man had thrown it in his pet.“Humph!” ejaculated Barnett. “Well, he won’t have Mrs Mostyn to take his part. Pretty thing if I can’t find fault with those under me.”At that moment he turned, and there, a hundred yards away, was John Grange coming along to his dinner, erect, and walking at a fair pace along the green walk, touching the side from time to time with his stick so as to keep in the centre.The idea came like a flash, and Daniel Barnett glanced round. No one appeared to be in sight, and quick as thought it was done. One sharp thrust at the bent handle was sufficient to raise the scythe blade and swing it round across the green path, so that the keen edge rose up and kept in position a few inches above the grass right in John Grange’s path as he came steadily on.The next moment Barnett had sprung among the bushes, and was gone.
Mrs Mostyn said but little more, though she thought a great deal. John Grange gave her his explanation. He had, he said, been into the conservatory twice that morning; and on the second visit brought the can of water to give the orchids a final freshening, when he felt something crush beneath his feet, and, startled and horrified at finding what was wrong, he had dropped the pot of water and added to the mishap.
Mrs Mostyn said, “That will do,” rather coldly; and the young man went away crushed, feeling that she did not believe him, and that the morning’s business had, in her disappointment, cast him down from his high position.
A day or two later he tried to renew the matter, but he received a short “That will do”; and, humbled and disheartened, he went away, feeling that his position at The Hollows would never be the same again.
It was talked over at the cottage, where Mary listened in agony.
“Pity he did not own to having met with an accident at once,” said her father. “Of course it is no more than one expected, it was sure to come some time; but it was a pity he was such a coward and took, refuge in a lie. Just like a child: but, poor fellow, his accident has made him weak.”
Mary flushed up in her agony and indignation, for it was as if her father had accused her of untruthfulness; but an imploring look from her mother, just as she was going to speak, silenced her, and she suffered to herself till her father had gone, and then indignantly declared that John Grange was incapable of telling a lie.
The trouble was discussed too pretty largely at old Hannah’s cottage, where Tummus’s wife gave it as her opinion that it was “one of they dratted cats.” They was always breaking something, and if the truth was known it was “the missus’s Prusshun Tom, as she allers called Shah.”
“I don’t want to accuse anybody,” said John Grange sadly, as he sat with a piteous look in his blank eyes; “but I’m afraid one of the servants must have stumbled up against the stand, and was then afraid to speak.”
“Burr-urr!” growled old Tummus, who was devouring his late meal—a meat tea, the solid part consisting of a great hunch of bread and upon it a large piece of cold boiled, streaky, salt pork.
“Don’t make noises like that at the table, Tummus,” said his wife. “What will Mr Grange think of you?”
“Only said ‘Burr-urr!’” grumbled old Tummus.
“Well, you shouldn’t; and I do wish you would use the proper knife and fork like a Christian, and keep your pork on your plate.”
“This here’s quite sharp enough, missus,” said the old man, cutting the piece of pork with the blade of his great pruning-knife, and re-arranging the piece under his perfectly clean but dirty-looking, garden-stained thumb.
“But it looks so bad, cutting like that; and how do we know what you used that knife for last.”
“Well, Muster John Grange can’t see, can he?”
“No, no, I cannot see, man,” said Grange sadly. “Go on in your own way as if I were not here.”
“Burr-urr!” growled old Tummus again.
“Why, what is the matter with the man?” cried his wife. “Have you not meat enough?”
“Aye, it’s right enow. I was only thinking about them orchards. I know.”
“Know what?” said his wife.
“Who done it. I see him go there and come away.”
“What?” cried John Grange excitedly, as he turned his eyes towards the old gardener.
“I see Muster Dan Barnett come away from the conservatory all in a hurry like, d’re’ckly after you’d been there.”
“You saw Dan Barnett?”
“Aye, that’s so. I see him: did it out o’ spite ’cause the missus didn’t give him the job.”
“Tummus, what are you a-saying of?” cried his wife, as the old man’s words made Grange start excitedly from his chair. “Why, if Dan’l Barnett heared as you said that, you’d be turned away at a moment’s notice.”
“I don’t keer; it’s the solomon truth,” said old Tummus, cutting off a cubic piece of pork and lifting it from his bread with the point of his pruning-knife.
“It can’t be anything of the sort, so hold your tongue. There, there, Mr Grange, my dear. Don’t you take any notice of his silly clat. Have another cup of tea: here’s quite a beauty left.”
“You say you saw Daniel Barnett come from the conservatory that morning?” cried Grange excitedly; and there was a wild look of agony in his eyes as he spoke.
“Nay, nay, he didn’t, my dear,” cried old Hannah; “it’s all his nonsense. Just see what you’ve done, Tummus, with your rubbishing stuff.”
“Aye, but I did see him come out, and I see him go in all of a hurry like,” said old Tummus sturdily.
“Where were you?”
“In the shrubbery, raking up the dead leaves as he told me to the night afore, and forgotten as I was there so near.”
“And you were busy raking the leaves?” said Grange.
“Nay, I warn’t; I was a-watching on him, and left off, for I didn’t see what he wanted there.”
“No, no, it’s impossible; he would have been so careful,” said Grange hurriedly.
“Keerful?” cried old Tummus contemptuously: “he did it o’ purpose. I know: out o’ spite.”
“Tummus, you’re driving us in a coach and four into the workhouse,” cried his wife passionately.
“Good job too. I don’t keer. I say Dan Barnett did it out o’ spite, and I’ll go straight to the missus and tell her.”
“No,” said John Grange sternly. “Not a word. What you say is impossible. Daniel Barnett does not like me, and he resents my being here, but he could not have been guilty of so cowardly, so contemptible an act.”
“Burr-urr!” growled old Tummus; “wouldn’t he? I know.”
“Whatever you know,” said John Grange sternly, “you must keep to yourself.”
“What, and let the missus think you done it?”
“The truth comes to the surface some time or another,” said John Grange very firmly. “I cannot believe this is the truth, but even if it is I forbid you to speak.”
“Yes; he’d better,” put in old Hannah, shaking her head severely at her husband; and the meal was finished in silence.
Another month had passed, and John Grange’s position remained unchanged. He worked in the houses, and tied up plants by the green walks; but Mrs Mostyn never came round to stand by his side and talk to him regarding her flowers, and ask questions about the raising of fresh choice plants for the garden. In those painful minutes he had fallen very low in her estimation, and was no longer the same in her eyes, only the ordinary gardener whom she kept on out of charity, and whom she would keep on to the end of her days.
John Grange felt it bitterly, and longed to get away from a place which caused him intense agony, for, from time to time, he could not help knowing that Daniel Barnett went up to smoke a pipe with James Ellis, and talk about the garden.
But the sufferer was helpless. He could not decide what to do if he went away, for there was no talk now of getting him into an asylum; and in spite of all his strong endeavours and determination to be manly and firm, he felt that it would be impossible to go away from The Hollows and leave Mary Ellis.
From time to time Barnett saw little things which convinced him that so long as John Grange was near he would have no chance of making any headway with the object of his pursuit, and this made him so morose and bitter that he would often walk up and down one of the shrubberies on dark nights, inveighing against his rival, who still did not accept his position, but hung on in a place where he was not wanted.
“The girl’s mad about him,” he muttered, “absolutely mad, and—”
He stopped short, thoroughly startled by the thoughts which came into his mind. It was as if a temptation had been whispered to him, and, looking sharply round in the darkness, he hurried back to the bothy. That night he lay awake tossing about till morning. That very day he had encountered John Grange twice at the end of the long green walk, with its sloping sides and velvet turf, at the top of which slopes were long beds filled with dahlias. These John Grange was busy tying up to their sticks, and, as if unable to keep away, Barnett hung about that walk, and bullied the man at one end who was cutting the grass by hand where the machine could not be used; and at last made the poor fellow so wroth that he threw down his scythe as soon as Barnett had gone, and said he might do it himself.
Barnett came to the other end a couple of hundred yards away, and began to find fault with the way in which the dahlias were being tied up.
But John Grange bore it all without a word, though his lips quivered a little.
This was repeated, and Grange felt that it was the beginning of a course of persecution to drive him away.
Barnett went down the long green path till nearly at the end, when the dinner-bell began to ring, and just then he came upon the scythe lying where the man had thrown it in his pet.
“Humph!” ejaculated Barnett. “Well, he won’t have Mrs Mostyn to take his part. Pretty thing if I can’t find fault with those under me.”
At that moment he turned, and there, a hundred yards away, was John Grange coming along to his dinner, erect, and walking at a fair pace along the green walk, touching the side from time to time with his stick so as to keep in the centre.
The idea came like a flash, and Daniel Barnett glanced round. No one appeared to be in sight, and quick as thought it was done. One sharp thrust at the bent handle was sufficient to raise the scythe blade and swing it round across the green path, so that the keen edge rose up and kept in position a few inches above the grass right in John Grange’s path as he came steadily on.
The next moment Barnett had sprung among the bushes, and was gone.
Chapter Sixteen.The late Albert Smith, in hisChristopher Tadpole, describes a lady whose weakness was periwinkles. Old Hannah likewise had a weakness, but it was not for that unpleasant-looking curly mollusc which has to be wriggled out with a pin, but, as she expressed it, “a big mellow Williams pear with a maddick in it.”Old Hannah’s “maddick” was, of course, a maggot in north-country language, but it was not that she had a liking for the larva of a fly, but for the fruit in which that maggot lived for as a gardener’s wife she knew well enough that very often those were the finest pears, the first to ripen, that they fell off the tree and were useless for the purpose of dessert, and were often left to rot. So that, knowing well his wife’s weakness, old Tummus would pick up a fallen pear when he saw it under the tree in September, show it to old Dunton, who would nod his head, and the destination of that pear would be Tummus’s pocket.Now there was a fine old pyramid pear-tree not far from the green walk, and while hoeing away at the weeds that morning, where the rich soil made them disposed to grow rampant, old Tummus came upon “the very moral” of the pear his old woman would like. It was big, mellow, and streaked with vermilion and patched with gold; and had evidently lain there two nights, for its fragrant odour had attracted a slug, which had carved a couple of round cells in the side, close to where the round black hole betrayed where the maggot lived, and sundry other marks showed that it was still at hand.Tummus picked up that pear and laid it in the green cup formed by a young broccoli plant, went on with his hoeing till the bell rang, and was half-way to the gate, stick and lunch-basket in hand, when he remembered the pear, and hurried back—that is to say, he walked back—not quite so slowly as usual, for Tummus never ran. A man that came from “his parts” remembered that the old man had been known to run once, at some cottagers’ festival, but that was ages before, and ever since he had walked very deliberately.Anyhow, he found the pear, and was returning to cut across the green path, when he caught sight of Daniel Barnett, and stopped short.“I forgetted as poor old Dunton’s dead,” he thought, “He’ll turn nasty if I ask him about the pear; and what’s he a-doing of?”Old Tummus peered through a great row of scarlet-runners and stared at his superior, and saw him bend over something on the green path, and then dart in among the bushes and disappear.“Now what is he doing of?” old Tummus muttered. “Not a-going to— Why here comes poor Master Grange. Well, he couldn’t have seen him. Not a-setting o’ no more traps, is he?”Old Tummus watched for a moment or two, and then walked right across the borders to reach the green path, breathless, just before John Grange came up, and shouted loudly—“Ware well!”It was just in time, for in another instant the blind man’s ankle would have struck severely against the keen scythe edge, which by accident or malignant design was so placed that its cut would have proved most dangerous, that is to say, in a slightly diagonal position—that is, it would have produced what is known to swordsmen as a draw-cut.But the poor fellow escaped, for, at the first warning of danger he stopped short, erect in his place, with his nostrils widening and face turned towards the speaker.“Well?” he cried. “Impossible! I am three parts of the way along the green path.”“Aye, that’s so, Muster Grange,” said old Tummus, carefully removing the scythe, and placing it in safety by hooking the blade high up in a dense yew-tree. “No well here, but I thought it best any way to stop you.”“To stop me? Why?” cried Grange.“’Cause some one as ought to be kicked out o’ the place left his scythe lying across the grass ready for you to chop your shins. It’s all right now.”They walked on in silence till they reached a gate opening upon the green meadow, where John Grange stopped short with his hand resting upon the upper bar.“What is it, my lad?” said old Tummus.“I was only thinking of how helpless I am. I thank you, Tummus,” he said simply, as he turned and held out his hand. “I might have cut myself terribly.”“Aye, you might, my lad. There, go on to your dinner, and tell the missus I shall be there directly.”John Grange wrung the old man’s hand, and went on in perfect ignorance of the trap that had been laid, with the idea that if he were injured and had to go to a hospital once again, it was not likely that he would return to the gardens; while old Tummus went off to the tool-shed, a quiet, retired nook, suitable for a good think, to cogitate as to what he should do under the circumstances.His first thought was to go straight to Mrs Mostyn, and tell her what he had seen, and also about the orchids, but he argued directly that his mistress would not believe him.“For I didn’t see him upset the orchards, and as to this here business,” he thought, “nobody wouldn’t believe as a human being would go and do such a thing. Dunno as I would mysen if I hadn’t seen it, and I arn’t quite sure now as he meant to do it, though it looks as much like it as ever it could. He’s got his knife into poor John Grange, somehow, and I don’t see why, for the poor fellow arn’t likely to do much harm to anybody now.”Then he considered for a bit as to whether he should tell John Grange what he had seen; but he concluded that he would not, for it would only make the poor fellow miserable if he believed him.Old Tummus was still considering as to the best course when the two o’clock bell rang, and he jumped up to go back to his work.“Never mind,” he thought, with a grin, “I dessay there’ll be a few cold taters left, and I must have them with my tea.”That same evening, after old Tummus had finished a meal which more than made up for his abstemiously plain dinner, he made up his mind to tell John Grange out in the garden.“For,” said he to himself, “I mayn’t be there next time there’s a scythe across the path, and who knows but what some day it may be the well in real airnest; Dan Barnett may leave the lid off, or uncover the soft-water tank, and the poor chap be drowned ’fore he knows it.”But when he went out he found his lodger looking so happy and contented, tying up the loose shoots of the monthly rose which ran over the cottage, that he held his tongue.“It arn’t my business,” he argued, and he went off to meet an old crony or two in the village.“Don’t let any one run away with the house while I’m gone, Mr John,” said old Hannah, a few minutes later. “I’m going down to the shop, and I shan’t be very long.”Grange nodded pleasantly, and went on with his work.That night Mary Ellis sat at her open window, sad and thoughtful, inhaling the cool, soft breeze which came through the trees, laden with woodland scents. The south-eastern sky was faintly aglow, lit up by the heralds of the rising moon, and save the barking of a dog up at the kennels, all was still.She was thinking very deeply of her position, and of Daniel Barnett’s manner towards her the last time they met. It was plain enough that her father favoured the head-gardener’s visits, and in her misery her thoughts turned to John Grange, the tears falling softly the while. All at once she started away from the window, for, plainly heard, a low, deep sigh came from the dark shadow of the trees across the road.Daniel Barnett? John Grange? There so late? Who could it be?Her heart said John Grange, for the wish was father to the thought.But she heard nothing more for a few minutes, and then in a whisper, hardly above the breath, the words—“Good-bye—for ever, perhaps—good-bye!”Then came the hurrying sound of steps on the dewy grass at the side of the road, and the speaker was gone, leaving Mary leaning out of the window, excited and trembling violently, while her heart beat in the stillness of the night as if it were the echo of the hurried pace rapidly dying away.“It could not be—it could not be,” she sighed at last, as she left the window to prepare for bed. “And yet he loves me so dearly. But why should he say that?”She stopped in the middle of the room, and the words seemed to repeat themselves—“Good-bye—for ever, perhaps—good-bye!”The tears fell fast as she felt that it was so like John Grange in his manly, honourable way of treating their positions.“He feels it all so terribly that it would be like tying me down—that it would be terrible for me—because he is blind.”She wiped her eyes, and a bright smile played about her lips, for there, self-pictured, was a happy future for them both, and she saw herself lightening the great trouble of John Grange’s life, and smoothing his onward course. There was their happy home with her husband seeing with her eyes, guided always by her hand, and looking proud, manly, and strong once more as she had known him of old.“It will only draw us closer together,” she said softly; “and father will never refuse when he once feels it’s for my happiness and for poor John’s good.”But the smile died out as black clouds once more rose to blot out the pleasant picture she had formed in her mind; and as the mists gathered the tears fell once more, hot, briny tears which seemed to scald her eyes as she sank upon her knees by the bedside and buried her face in her hands.That night Mary Ellis’s couch remained unpressed, and the rising sun shone in at the window upon her glossy hair where she crouched down beside her bed.It was a movement in the adjoining room which roused her from the heavy stupor into which she had fallen, for it could hardly be called a natural sleep, and she started up to look round as if feeling guilty of some lapse of duty.For a few minutes she suffered from a strange feeling of confusion accompanied by depression. Then by degrees the incidents of the past night came clearly to her mind, and she recalled how she had sunk down by her bed to pray for help and patience, and that the terrible affliction might be lightened for him she loved, and then all had become blank.A few minutes before Mary’s face had looked wan and pale, now it was suffused by a warm glow that was not that of the ruddy early morning sun. For the hope had risen strongly in her breast that, in spite of all, the terrible affliction would be lightened, and by her.
The late Albert Smith, in hisChristopher Tadpole, describes a lady whose weakness was periwinkles. Old Hannah likewise had a weakness, but it was not for that unpleasant-looking curly mollusc which has to be wriggled out with a pin, but, as she expressed it, “a big mellow Williams pear with a maddick in it.”
Old Hannah’s “maddick” was, of course, a maggot in north-country language, but it was not that she had a liking for the larva of a fly, but for the fruit in which that maggot lived for as a gardener’s wife she knew well enough that very often those were the finest pears, the first to ripen, that they fell off the tree and were useless for the purpose of dessert, and were often left to rot. So that, knowing well his wife’s weakness, old Tummus would pick up a fallen pear when he saw it under the tree in September, show it to old Dunton, who would nod his head, and the destination of that pear would be Tummus’s pocket.
Now there was a fine old pyramid pear-tree not far from the green walk, and while hoeing away at the weeds that morning, where the rich soil made them disposed to grow rampant, old Tummus came upon “the very moral” of the pear his old woman would like. It was big, mellow, and streaked with vermilion and patched with gold; and had evidently lain there two nights, for its fragrant odour had attracted a slug, which had carved a couple of round cells in the side, close to where the round black hole betrayed where the maggot lived, and sundry other marks showed that it was still at hand.
Tummus picked up that pear and laid it in the green cup formed by a young broccoli plant, went on with his hoeing till the bell rang, and was half-way to the gate, stick and lunch-basket in hand, when he remembered the pear, and hurried back—that is to say, he walked back—not quite so slowly as usual, for Tummus never ran. A man that came from “his parts” remembered that the old man had been known to run once, at some cottagers’ festival, but that was ages before, and ever since he had walked very deliberately.
Anyhow, he found the pear, and was returning to cut across the green path, when he caught sight of Daniel Barnett, and stopped short.
“I forgetted as poor old Dunton’s dead,” he thought, “He’ll turn nasty if I ask him about the pear; and what’s he a-doing of?”
Old Tummus peered through a great row of scarlet-runners and stared at his superior, and saw him bend over something on the green path, and then dart in among the bushes and disappear.
“Now what is he doing of?” old Tummus muttered. “Not a-going to— Why here comes poor Master Grange. Well, he couldn’t have seen him. Not a-setting o’ no more traps, is he?”
Old Tummus watched for a moment or two, and then walked right across the borders to reach the green path, breathless, just before John Grange came up, and shouted loudly—
“Ware well!”
It was just in time, for in another instant the blind man’s ankle would have struck severely against the keen scythe edge, which by accident or malignant design was so placed that its cut would have proved most dangerous, that is to say, in a slightly diagonal position—that is, it would have produced what is known to swordsmen as a draw-cut.
But the poor fellow escaped, for, at the first warning of danger he stopped short, erect in his place, with his nostrils widening and face turned towards the speaker.
“Well?” he cried. “Impossible! I am three parts of the way along the green path.”
“Aye, that’s so, Muster Grange,” said old Tummus, carefully removing the scythe, and placing it in safety by hooking the blade high up in a dense yew-tree. “No well here, but I thought it best any way to stop you.”
“To stop me? Why?” cried Grange.
“’Cause some one as ought to be kicked out o’ the place left his scythe lying across the grass ready for you to chop your shins. It’s all right now.”
They walked on in silence till they reached a gate opening upon the green meadow, where John Grange stopped short with his hand resting upon the upper bar.
“What is it, my lad?” said old Tummus.
“I was only thinking of how helpless I am. I thank you, Tummus,” he said simply, as he turned and held out his hand. “I might have cut myself terribly.”
“Aye, you might, my lad. There, go on to your dinner, and tell the missus I shall be there directly.”
John Grange wrung the old man’s hand, and went on in perfect ignorance of the trap that had been laid, with the idea that if he were injured and had to go to a hospital once again, it was not likely that he would return to the gardens; while old Tummus went off to the tool-shed, a quiet, retired nook, suitable for a good think, to cogitate as to what he should do under the circumstances.
His first thought was to go straight to Mrs Mostyn, and tell her what he had seen, and also about the orchids, but he argued directly that his mistress would not believe him.
“For I didn’t see him upset the orchards, and as to this here business,” he thought, “nobody wouldn’t believe as a human being would go and do such a thing. Dunno as I would mysen if I hadn’t seen it, and I arn’t quite sure now as he meant to do it, though it looks as much like it as ever it could. He’s got his knife into poor John Grange, somehow, and I don’t see why, for the poor fellow arn’t likely to do much harm to anybody now.”
Then he considered for a bit as to whether he should tell John Grange what he had seen; but he concluded that he would not, for it would only make the poor fellow miserable if he believed him.
Old Tummus was still considering as to the best course when the two o’clock bell rang, and he jumped up to go back to his work.
“Never mind,” he thought, with a grin, “I dessay there’ll be a few cold taters left, and I must have them with my tea.”
That same evening, after old Tummus had finished a meal which more than made up for his abstemiously plain dinner, he made up his mind to tell John Grange out in the garden.
“For,” said he to himself, “I mayn’t be there next time there’s a scythe across the path, and who knows but what some day it may be the well in real airnest; Dan Barnett may leave the lid off, or uncover the soft-water tank, and the poor chap be drowned ’fore he knows it.”
But when he went out he found his lodger looking so happy and contented, tying up the loose shoots of the monthly rose which ran over the cottage, that he held his tongue.
“It arn’t my business,” he argued, and he went off to meet an old crony or two in the village.
“Don’t let any one run away with the house while I’m gone, Mr John,” said old Hannah, a few minutes later. “I’m going down to the shop, and I shan’t be very long.”
Grange nodded pleasantly, and went on with his work.
That night Mary Ellis sat at her open window, sad and thoughtful, inhaling the cool, soft breeze which came through the trees, laden with woodland scents. The south-eastern sky was faintly aglow, lit up by the heralds of the rising moon, and save the barking of a dog up at the kennels, all was still.
She was thinking very deeply of her position, and of Daniel Barnett’s manner towards her the last time they met. It was plain enough that her father favoured the head-gardener’s visits, and in her misery her thoughts turned to John Grange, the tears falling softly the while. All at once she started away from the window, for, plainly heard, a low, deep sigh came from the dark shadow of the trees across the road.
Daniel Barnett? John Grange? There so late? Who could it be?
Her heart said John Grange, for the wish was father to the thought.
But she heard nothing more for a few minutes, and then in a whisper, hardly above the breath, the words—
“Good-bye—for ever, perhaps—good-bye!”
Then came the hurrying sound of steps on the dewy grass at the side of the road, and the speaker was gone, leaving Mary leaning out of the window, excited and trembling violently, while her heart beat in the stillness of the night as if it were the echo of the hurried pace rapidly dying away.
“It could not be—it could not be,” she sighed at last, as she left the window to prepare for bed. “And yet he loves me so dearly. But why should he say that?”
She stopped in the middle of the room, and the words seemed to repeat themselves—
“Good-bye—for ever, perhaps—good-bye!”
The tears fell fast as she felt that it was so like John Grange in his manly, honourable way of treating their positions.
“He feels it all so terribly that it would be like tying me down—that it would be terrible for me—because he is blind.”
She wiped her eyes, and a bright smile played about her lips, for there, self-pictured, was a happy future for them both, and she saw herself lightening the great trouble of John Grange’s life, and smoothing his onward course. There was their happy home with her husband seeing with her eyes, guided always by her hand, and looking proud, manly, and strong once more as she had known him of old.
“It will only draw us closer together,” she said softly; “and father will never refuse when he once feels it’s for my happiness and for poor John’s good.”
But the smile died out as black clouds once more rose to blot out the pleasant picture she had formed in her mind; and as the mists gathered the tears fell once more, hot, briny tears which seemed to scald her eyes as she sank upon her knees by the bedside and buried her face in her hands.
That night Mary Ellis’s couch remained unpressed, and the rising sun shone in at the window upon her glossy hair where she crouched down beside her bed.
It was a movement in the adjoining room which roused her from the heavy stupor into which she had fallen, for it could hardly be called a natural sleep, and she started up to look round as if feeling guilty of some lapse of duty.
For a few minutes she suffered from a strange feeling of confusion accompanied by depression. Then by degrees the incidents of the past night came clearly to her mind, and she recalled how she had sunk down by her bed to pray for help and patience, and that the terrible affliction might be lightened for him she loved, and then all had become blank.
A few minutes before Mary’s face had looked wan and pale, now it was suffused by a warm glow that was not that of the ruddy early morning sun. For the hope had risen strongly in her breast that, in spite of all, the terrible affliction would be lightened, and by her.