In his own mind he grew more and more sure that John Grange had taken his life, but he said nothing, and though affectionately amiable to his friends up at the cottage, he daily grew more morose to those beneath him in the gardens, and made their lives as great a burden as his own was to him.
Troubles of this kind go on for a long time before they reach the employer’s ears. James Ellis heard that there were complaints of Barnett’s tyrannical treatment, and threats on the part of the men to leave; but he saw that the garden was admirably kept and sided with the head, refusing to listen to the murmurs which grew deep now instead of loud.
The months had glided by, and it was autumn once more, with the fruit ripening fast in the garden, and, save to Mary Ellis, the sad episode of John Grange’s career had grown fainter and fainter in the memories of those who had known him.
Barnett had long ceased to wait for invitations, and quite three times a week used to go up to the cottage and stay late, while at the house he was often joked and questioned as to when it was coming off, whereupon he would smile and look knowing, while all the time there was a bitter gnawing at his heart, for he knew that he was no nearer winning Mary than he was the year before when John Grange disappeared.
Then came a sharp little encounter, one bright September day in the garden, where, after his wont, old Tummus had been to what he called “torment them there weeds,” to wit, chopping and tearing them up with his hoe, and leaving them to shrink and die.
The Bon Chrétiens were particularly fine that year, and one which had become worm-eaten, and had in consequence prematurely ripened, showing all the bright tints of its kind, had fallen and lay ready to rot, when, hoeing away, old Tummus saw it, smiled to himself as he thought how it would please old Hannah, picked it up and laid it aside ready to take up to the bothy when he put on his coat at dinner-time.
“I shall have to ask him for it,” muttered the old man, “or else there’ll be a row.”
Just at that moment, as luck had it, Mrs Mostyn came along, with scissors and basket, to cut a few dahlias, and, in obedience to a sudden thought, old Tummus raised the fruit by the stalk and stepped toward his mistress, offering her the pear.
“Strange nyste pear, mum,” he said.
“And ripe so soon. There, lay it in the basket. Ah! Tut, tut! It’s all worm-eaten; take it away, and give it to somebody who will not mind.”