“It is too much to bear,” groaned the sufferer.
“No: and you will bear it. But you must expect nothing. I shall in all probability fail, but if I do, you will be no worse off than you are now.”
“No, sir, I could be no worse off,” faltered Grange.
“That is the way to take it. Then you will come? But I must warn you: it may mean your being away for a year—perhaps for two.”
“I would do anything to get back my sight.”
“Then you will come? I will not communicate with Mrs Mostyn, for fear of raising false hopes. If I succeed she will forgive your sudden leaving. She is a good mistress, my lad. Pity you did not speak out the truth that day.”
John Grange flushed up.
“Indeed it was the truth, sir,” he cried angrily.
“There, there! No excitement. You will have to lead now a calm, unemotional life if I am to do you good. Good-evening. I shall expect to see you to-morrow morning, then, before I leave for town. But once more, keep your own counsel, and hope for nothing; then all that comes will be so much gain.”
He drew up the rein, touched his horse’s side, and went off at a canter, leaving Grange standing in the cottage garden, one moment with his mind illumined by hope, the next black with despair.