Chapter 4 | A Life's Eclipse

Old Hannah’s fears were needless, for the delirium passed away; and as the days glided by and poor Grange lay in his darkened bedroom, untiringly watched by old Tummus’s patient wife, James Ellis used to take the tidings home till the day when in secret Mary went up afterwards to her own room to sink upon her knees by her bedside, and hide her burning face in her hands, as if guiltily, while she offered up her prayer and thanksgiving for all that she had heard.

For the doctor had definitely said that John Grange would not die from the effects of his fall.

“Thank you, Tummus, old man,” said the patient, one evening about a fortnight after the accident; and he took a bunch of roses in his hand. “I can’t see them, but they smell deliciously. Hah! How it makes me long to be back again among the dear old flowers.”

“Aye, to be sure, my lad. You mun mak’ haste and get well and get out to us again. Dan Barnett arn’t half the man you are among the missus’s orchardses. And look here, I want my old woman home again. You mun look sharp and get well.”

“Yes: I hope the doctor will soon let me get up. God bless you, Hannah! You’ve been quite like a mother to me.”

“Nonsense, nonsense, boy; only a bit o’ nussing. Make haste and get well again.”

“Aye, she’d be a good nuss if she warn’t quite so fond o’ mustard,” said old Tummus. “It’s allus mustard, mustard, stuck about you to pingle and sting if there’s owt the matter. I like my mustard on my beef. And that’s what you want, Master John—some good slices o’ beef. They women’s never happy wi’out giving you spoon meat.”

“Hold your tongue, Tummus, and don’t talk so much nonsense,” said his wife.

“Nay, I arn’t going to be choked. I s’pose Mrs Mostyn sends you jellies and chicken-broth, and the like?”

“Yes, every one is very kind,” said Grange. “But look here, have you seen to the mushroom bed?”

“Aye.”

“And those cuttings in the frames?”

“You mak’ haste and get well, Master John, and don’t you worry about nowt. I’m seeing to everything quite proper, for I don’t trust Master Dan Barnett a bit. He’s thinking too much o’ finding scuses to go up to the cottage, and I know why. There, good-night. Get well, lad. I do want to see that bandage from over your eyes next time I come. Old Dunton’s mortal bad, they say. Good-night.”

It was a bad night for John Grange, who was so feverish that the doctor remarked upon it, and the progress was so poor during the next week that the doctor determined to have his patient up, and came one morning in company with the bailiff, talking to him seriously the while.

They were very kind to him, helping him to dress, and helped him at last into the outer room, where it was light and cool, and old Hannah, with a face full of commiseration, had placed an easy-chair for the pale, weak man, with his eyes and head bandaged heavily.

It so happened that just as John Grange lay back in the chair, while old Hannah stood with her handkerchief to her eyes, crying silently, and James Ellis was behind the chair looking very grave and stern, Daniel Barnett came up to the door of the bothy with a message, which he did not deliver, for the words he heard arrested him, and he drew back listening.

“Now, doctor, please,” sighed Grange; “it has been so hard to bear all this long time, and I have been very patient. Let me have the bandage off, and, if it’s only a glimpse, one look at the bright sunshine again.”

There was silence for a moment, and then the doctor took the young man’s hand, his voice shaking a little, as he said gravely—

“Grange, my lad, three weeks ago I felt that I could not save your life. God has heard our prayers, and let my poor skill avail. You will in a few weeks be as strong as ever.”

“Yes—yes,” said the patient, in tones of humble thankfulness, and then his lips moved for a few moments, but no sound was heard. Then aloud—“Believe me, doctor, I am grateful. But the bandage. Let me see the light.”

“My poor fellow!” began the doctor, and old Hannah uttered a sob, “you must know.”

“Ah!” cried John Grange, snatching the bandage from his eyes, the broad handkerchief kept there ever since the fall. “Don’t—don’t tell me that—I—I was afraid—yes—dark—all dark! Doctor—doctor—don’t tell me I am blind!”

Old Hannah’s sobs grew piteous, and in the silence which followed, James Ellis stole on tiptoe towards the window, unable to be a witness of the agony which convulsed the young man’s face.

“Then it is true!” said Grange. “Blind—blind from that awful shock.”

“Ah, here you are, Master Barnett,” cried the voice of old Tummus outside. “The doctor. Is he coming over? ’Cause he needn’t now.”

“What is the matter?” said Ellis, stepping out, with Daniel Barnett backing away from the porch before him.

“Poor owd Dunton’s gone, sir; dropped off dead ripe at last—just gone to sleep.”

James Ellis looked Daniel Barnett in the eyes, and both had the same thought in their minds.

What a change in the younger man’s prospects this last stroke of fate had made!