Chapter 19 | A Life's Eclipse

Old Tummus and his wife both declared that they minded what the bailiff said, and never let a word escape from them about the old man’s suspicions; but rumour is a sad spreader of news, and the result of some bit of tittle-tattle turns up in places least expected, doing incalculable harm.

It was not likely that John Grange’s disappearance would die out of ordinary conversation without being pretty well embroidered by people’s imagination, and like the Three Black Crows of the old story, being added to until the origin looked very trifling and small. But all the same, it was some time before people’s doubts reached Mrs Mostyn’s ears through her housekeeper, and she turned upon her old confidential servant with a look of horror.

“Oh, my good woman!” she cried, “don’t tell me that: it can’t be true.”

The housekeeper shook her head.

“I hope not, ma’am; but it has grown to be common talk.”

“Why, if it really were so, I could never live happily in the old place again. Go away, and send some one to fetch James Ellis here, directly.”

The bailiff came in due course; and as soon as he entered the drawing-room, where his mistress’s face plainly showed that something was very wrong, she saluted him with—

“What’s all this I hear about that poor young man?”

“Well, ma’am, I—”

“Ah, no hesitation, James Ellis. I want the precise facts. Is it true that he made away with himself?”

“That nobody can say, ma’am,” said James Ellis firmly. “There has been some tattle of that kind.”

“And you think that he did?”

“I try not to, ma’am,” said the bailiff, “for everybody’s sake. It would be terrible.” Mrs Mostyn was silent. “Thank you, Ellis,” she said, after a few minutes of awful silence; “it would indeed be terrible. But ought some search to be made? Is it my duty to have representations made to the police?”

“I think not now, ma’am. I did not like to give any encouragement to the rumour, for, after all, it is only a rumour.”

“But where there’s smoke there’s fire, James Ellis.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the bailiff sagely; “but people often see what they think is smoke, and it turns out to be only a vapour which dies away in the sunshine.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs Mostyn thoughtfully.

“I have gone into the matter a good deal, ma’am, I hope, as an honest man.”

“I am sure of that, James Ellis,” said his mistress.

“And for two reasons I have tried to think I was right in taking no steps about what may, after all, be all a fancy at which we have jumped.”

“And what were the reasons, James Ellis?”

“One was, ma’am, that I knew it would be a great pain and trouble to my employer.”

Mrs Mostyn bent her head.

“And the other?”

“Well, ma’am, to speak plainly, there was a little bit of leaning on the part of my Mary towards poor John Grange, and there’s no doubt he was very fond of her.”

“Ah! This is news to me. And you and Mrs Ellis?”

“These things come about, ma’am, without fathers and mothers having anything to do with them till too late.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs Mostyn thoughtfully.

“But when John Grange’s bad accident happened, of course I had to put down my foot firmly, and say it could not be.”

“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.

She said nothing. There was no wild cry of horror: only a sudden motion of her hands towards her bosom, where she held them pressed; and they saw her face turn of a deathly white, even to her lips, as the blood flew to her heart. Then she uttered a low sigh and sank down in a chair, where she was still seated, gazing vacantly before her into the future, when her father returned and flew to her side.

He looked at his wife without speaking, but his eyes said plainly, “You have heard?” and Mrs Ellis bowed her head.

“Mary, my darling,” the old man whispered, as he caught her to his heart. And at this she uttered a faint cry, and hid her poor white face upon her hands.

“We can do nothing, mother,” whispered Ellis. “Let her rest. Time is the only cure for this. I tried to hide it, but I knew it must come at last, and it has come.”

“Good-bye—good-bye for ever,” murmured Mary, almost in a whisper; and her words sent a chill through both their breasts.