"Yes, sir."
"Look in my direction--hard, and now tell me: can you not make out my face, even faintly?"
"I can see that there is light, sir, where you are; but you have your back to the west. It is the warm sunset."
"Then you are not quite blind, my lad. Well, has Mrs Mostyn forgiven you about her orchids?"
"Ah! I remember you now, sir," cried Grange. "You are the friend--the great doctor--who came to see them."
"To be sure I am the doctor--I don't know about great--who stayed the night--Doctor Renton, of the Gables, Dale-by-Lyndon."
"Yes, sir, I know. I have heard tell of your beautiful garden."
"Indeed? Well, look here, my man. Your mistress interested me in your case, and I thought I would ride over some evening and see you. I should like you to come to me, so that I could examine your eyes, and test them a little."
John Grange turned ghastly and fell a-trembling, as he grasped at the window-sill to steady himself.
"Come, come, that will not do," cried the doctor quickly. "Be a man!
You are weak and nervous. Try and control your feelings."
"But--then--oh, for Heaven's sake, speak, sir," said Grange, in a husky whisper. "You think there is hope?"
"I do not say that, my man, but since Mrs Mostyn told me about your case, I have thought of it a great deal. Come over and see me, saying nothing to any one, for fear of disappointment. Then, if I think it is worth while, you shall come up to London and stay."
"It is too much to bear," groaned the sufferer.
"No: and you will bear it. But you must expect nothing. I shall in all probability fail, but if I do, you will be no worse off than you are now."
"No, sir, I could be no worse off," faltered Grange.
"That is the way to take it. Then you will come? But I must warn you: it may mean your being away for a year--perhaps for two."
"I would do anything to get back my sight."
"Then you will come? I will not communicate with Mrs Mostyn, for fear of raising false hopes. If I succeed she will forgive your sudden leaving. She is a good mistress, my lad. Pity you did not speak out the truth that day."
John Grange flushed up.
"Indeed it was the truth, sir," he cried angrily.
"There, there! No excitement. You will have to lead now a calm, unemotional life if I am to do you good. Good-evening. I shall expect to see you to-morrow morning, then, before I leave for town. But once more, keep your own counsel, and hope for nothing; then all that comes will be so much gain."
He drew up the rein, touched his horse's side, and went off at a canter, leaving Grange standing in the cottage garden, one moment with his mind illumined by hope, the next black with despair.
"No," he cried softly; "it is too late. He can do nothing. Only that long, dark journey before me to the end. Tell no one! Lead no one to expect that I may be cured! No, not a word to any. Better away from here to be forgotten, for everything about me grows too hard to bear."
That night he stole away in the darkness, to pause on the opposite side of the road, to whisper to the winds good-bye, and feel for a few brief minutes that he was near Mary before he said "Good-bye--for ever!" To be dead to all he knew unless he could return to them as he had been of old.
This was John Grange's story--condensed--as he told it to the group at the cottage. Then in a low, deep tone, full of emotion--
"If I was to end my days sightless, Mary, I knew I could not come to you again; but Heaven has willed it otherwise. It has been a long, long waiting, hopeless till within the last month, and it was only within the past few days that the doctor told me that all was safe, and I might be at rest."
"But you might have written, John, if only once," said Mrs Ellis, with a sob in her throat.
"Yes," he said, "I might, but I believe what I did was right, Mrs Ellis; forgive me, all of you, if I was wrong."
What followed? Mrs Mostyn was eager to see John Grange back in his old position, but he gravely shook his head.
"No," he said, "Mary, I am not going to trample on a man who is down.
Let Dan Barnett keep the place; the doctor offers me one that will make us a happy home; and it will be, will it not?"
Mary glanced at her mother before replying, and James Ellis clasped the young man's hand, while Mrs Ellis rushed out to have what she called a good hearty cry.
"Lor', missus," said old Tummus, "I never worried much about it.
There's a deal of trouble in this here life, but a lot o' joy as well: things generally comes right in the end."
"Not always, dear."
"Eh? Well, never mind, this one has; and I only wish I was a bit younger, so that I could go and be under Muster John Grange.--No, I couldn't. I can go and see 'em once in a way, but I must stop here, in this old garden, with the missus, until we die."
"Yes, Tummus, yes," said old Hannah. "It wouldn't do at our time o'
life to make a change."
"Only that last big one, old lady, to go and work in the Master's vineyard, if He sees as we've done right. But there, dear, on'y to think o' all this here trouble coming from sawing off a bit o' ragged wood."
THE END.