“It seems very hard, James Ellis,” sighed his mistress; “but I suppose it was right.” Then she added quickly: “You are afraid of the poor girl hearing such a rumour?”
“More than that, ma’am,” said the bailiff huskily; “I’m afraid it would kill her, or send her melancholy mad.”
Mrs Mostyn heaved a deep sigh, and remained silent.
“Do you think it was my duty to have spoken to the police, ma’am, and told them I suspected the poor fellow made an end of himself?”
“James Ellis,” said Mrs Mostyn gravely, “you are Mary’s father, and love your child.”
“She is my one great comfort in life, ma’am.”
“Yes; and I am a weak woman, full of sympathy for one of my sex. I will not trust myself to judge in one way or the other. Let the matter rest for a time, and let us see what that brings forth.”
“Yes,” said James Ellis, as he went back home; “let us see what time brings forth.”
Time brought the rumour sooner than James Ellis suspected, for while he was having his interview with Mrs Mostyn, the story had floated to the cottage, where Mary heard it whispered to her mother than John Grange had wandered away from his lodgings one night, and, either by accident from his blindness, or in despair on account of his affliction, he had walked into the river, or some pool, and been drowned; for though plenty of inquiries had been made, he had not since been seen.
“Good-bye—good-bye for ever.” Those words she had heard that night as she sat at the window: his farewell to her; and it seemed to come home to her like a stroke of lightning, that in his despair he had rashly sought the end.