“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.”