“Yes, poor fellow, he’s gone,” said Ellis, who felt that it was time to speak.
“Of course I know why,” said Barnett, “it was too much for him. He was fretting his heart out, poor chap, and he no doubt thought it was the best he could do—get right away you know, where he wasn’t known, and where everything he saw—I mean everything he touched—didn’t remind him of the old place. It’s all very sad, and it used to make me feel uncomfortable, and keep away for fear of making him think of my superseding him; but there, we’re all like plants and flowers, Miss Mary, and suffer from our blights and east winds.”
He looked across at Mary, whose face was stony, and her eyes fixed upon him so strangely that he felt abashed, and turned to Mrs Ellis.
“Sad business, ma’am, from the beginning,” he said; “but, as the saying is, we don’t know, and perhaps it’s all for the best.”
Mrs Ellis sighed, the supper was at an end; and to the great relief of all, Barnett rose, and in a tone of voice which suggested that every one had been pressing him very hard to stay longer, he cried—
“Well, really, I must go now.”
Mrs Ellis said meekly, “Must you, Mr Barnett?” and held out her hand promptly.
He shook hands with her quite affectionately, and then turned to Mary, who let him take her hand more than gave it, and he sighed as he said “Good-night.”
“You’ll think about the gravel, Mr Ellis?” he said to his host. “I want that garden to look better than any one in the county.”
“Yes, you shall have it, Barnett, first time I can spare the horses at the farm. And I’ll go down to the gate with you.” They walked not only to the gate, but a couple of hundred yards towards the gardens before either spoke, and then just as Barnett was congratulating himself upon how well he had got on at the cottage that night, Ellis turned to him sharply.