“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.”