A Life's Eclipse Part 12

"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.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Four days elapsed, and Mrs Ellis noticed a change in her child. Mary had been more than usually attentive to her father, and James Ellis had noticed and looked pleased.

"'Tis going off, mother," he said one evening. "Of course it hit very hard at the time, poor little la.s.s, for she felt very fond of him, I suppose; but I always said to myself that time would heal the sore place, and, bless her, it is doing it. You've noticed how much brighter she seems?"

"Yes, I've noticed," said Mrs Ellis, nodding her head as she prepared the supper. "She was actually singing gently to herself this morning over her work, just as she used to, and you don't know, James dear, what a lot of good it did me."

"Oh, yes, I do--oh, yes, I do," said the bailiff, nodding his head. "Of course it would, mother."

"Yes, dear, it did, for it has been cruel work for me to see her going about the house in that heart-breaking way."

"Humph! Of course, and for me too."

"No, James, you're at home so little. You have your meals and sit with me of an evening, and at such times there's something going on to make the poor dear busy. But as soon as you're out of sight it has been dreadful again. I've seen a deal more of her poor heart-breaking than you have, and there have been times when--"

"Heart-breaking! Stuff and nonsense!" cried James Ellis petulantly.

"Ah, you don't know," said his wife, shaking her head at him sadly.

"Don't know what, you silly woman? There, that sounds like heart-breaking, doesn't it?"

For at that moment, plainly heard, came the sound of Mary's voice singing the old English song, "Robin Adair"; and as the notes reached his ear, James Ellis smiled, held his head on one side, swayed it to the melody, and began softly to hum over the plaintive tune.

"_Rob_--_in_--_er_--_her_--_dair_," sang James Ellis. "Well done, little la.s.sie! Talk about a voice, mother, why it's as sweet as a bird's."

"Yes, dear, but I wish she wouldn't sing such sad things--it puts me in mind of the robins in the autumn time."

"I wish you wouldn't be so melancholy, mother. You're enough to put a whole regiment of soldiers out of spirits, let alone a poor girl. Here, hold your tongue now. Here she comes."

Footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and the foot was more springy than it had been of late, as Mary entered the room.

"Ready for supper, father dear?" said Mary, going behind his chair, placing her arms about his neck, and drawing his head back so that she could lay her cheek against his forehead.

"Ready, my pet? Of course I am;" and "_Rob_--_in_--_er_--_her_--_dair_," he sang. "That's the way. I'm glad to hear you tune up a bit. It's like the birds in spring corn: and mother wants it, for of all the melancholy old women that ever lived, she's about the worst."

_Click_!

"Hallo! Who's that at the gate? Just look, dear."

Mary went to the window, but there was no need, for she knew the step; and as her mother glanced at her, she saw the girl's face harden as she said--

"Mr Barnett, father."

"Humph! What does he want to-night?" muttered Ellis. "Let him in, my dear; and, Mary, my girl, don't run away out of the room."

Mary was silent, and a tapping came at the door, evidently administered by the head of a stick.

"Evening, Miss Mary," said the visitor briskly. "Nice growing weather.

Father at home?"

"Yes, I'm at home. Want me, Daniel Barnett?"

"Well, yes, Mr Ellis, sir, there's a little bit o' business I want to see you about. I ought to have asked you this morning and down at the gardens, but somehow I've always got such a lot of things on my mind there that a lot of 'em slip out again."

"Come in then, come in then," said Ellis.

"Not if it's disturbing you, sir," protested the visitor. "Say the word, and I'll go and come up another evening. I don't mind a walk, Miss Mary," he added, in a confidential way.

"Business, business, Daniel Barnett! And there's nothing like getting it over," said Ellis, as, after a good deal of preliminary shoe-rubbing, Barnett stepped to the door of the sitting-room, and then stopped short in a very apologetic way.

"Why, you're just going to supper. I'd best come up to-morrow night."

James Ellis felt in the best of humours, and he smiled.

"Well," he said, "if you come to-morrow evening, I suppose I shall have some supper then. Sit down, man, and out with it."

"Oh, thank you, Mr Ellis, and with many apologies to you, Mrs Ellis, ma'am, and to you too, Miss Mary."

"Why, hallo! Daniel Barnett. Been to the bookseller's lately?"

"Eh? No, sir, I haven't been to the town for a fortnight past," said Barnett wonderingly.

"Oh," said the bailiff, with a knowing look at his wife and daughter; "I thought perhaps you'd bought and been studying up _Etiquette for Gentlemen_."