Chapter 8 | A Life's Eclipse

Ellis had been so thoroughly astounded upon seeing Mary kneeling by John Grange’s side that he had made a quick sign to Barnett to come away; and as soon as they were at a short distance from the door he felt that his action had been ill-judged, and likely to excite the derision of his companion, whom he had begun now to think of as a possible son-in-law.

“Wretched—foolish girl!” he said to himself, and leading the way, they both entered the bothy.

“Mary!” he cried angrily, “I am here. What is the meaning of this?”

Daniel Barnett, who was quivering with jealous rage, expected to see the bailiff’s daughter spring to her feet, flushed with shame and dread, at being surprised in such a position, but to his astonishment she hardly stirred, merely raising her head a little to look gently and sadly in her father’s face as she said—

“I have come to bid poor John Grange good-bye.”

“Without my leave!” stormed Ellis, “and like this. Mary! Shameless girl, have you taken leave of your senses?”

She smiled at him sadly, and shook her head.

“Disgraceful!” cried Ellis. “What will Mr Barnett—what will every one think of your conduct?”

He caught her hand in his rage, and drew her sharply away as he turned to John Grange.

“And you, sir, what have you to say? Your weakness and injury are no excuse. Everything possible has been done for you. We have all worked for you, and tried to lighten your affliction; even now I have come with Mr Barnett to see you off, and I find my kindness returned by a cruel, underhanded, cowardly blow.”

“Mr Ellis,” began John, with his pale face flushing and his dark eyes wandering as he tried to fix them upon the speaker’s face.

“Silence, sir! How dare you! How long has this disgraceful business been going on?”

“Oh, father, father!” cried Mary, clinging to him; “pray, pray say no more. We are not alone.”

“No,” cried Ellis, who had now worked himself into a towering passion; “we are not alone. Mr Barnett is here, a witness to the way in which this man has prevailed upon you to set all common decency at defiance, and come here alone. How long, I repeat, has this disgraceful business been going on?”

Mary was about to speak, but at that moment John Grange raised himself upon his elbow and said firmly—

“One moment, please, Mr Ellis; this is a matter solely between you and me. If Daniel Barnett is here, surely it is his duty, as a man, to go.”

“I don’t take my instructions from you, sir,” cried Ellis; “and I beg and desire that Mr Barnett will stay and hear what I have to say to you—you miserable, underhanded, contemptible hound.”

John Grange flushed, and noted the “Mr” applied again and again to his fellow-worker, and a pang of disappointment shot through him as he fully grasped what it meant.

“You are angry and bitter, sir,” he said, though calmly, “and are saying things which you will regret. There has been nothing underhanded. That I have long loved Miss Ellis, I am proud to say; but until this present time no word has passed between us, and I have never, as you know, addressed her as a lover.”

“Oh yes, you say so,” cried Ellis angrily. “You talked finely enough the other day, but what about now? So this is the way in which you carry out your high principles, deluding a silly child into coming here for this clandestine interview, and making her—a baby as she is, and not knowing her own mind—believe that you are a perfect hero, and entangling her with your soft speeches into I don’t know what promises.”

“It is not true, sir,” said John Grange sadly.

“How do I know it is not true, sir? Bah! It is true! I come here and find you and this shameless girl locked in each other’s arms.”

“Father!” cried Mary, snatching away her hand, and before Ellis could arrest her, going back to John Grange’s side to lay that hand upon his shoulder, “I cannot stand here and listen to your cruel, unjust words; John Grange is not to blame, it was my doing entirely.”

“Shame upon you, then!”

“No, it is no shame,” she cried proudly. “You force me to defend myself before another, and I will speak out now before the man who has for long enough pestered me with his attentions, and whom, during these past few days, you have made your friend and encouraged to come home; let him hear then that I feel it no shame to say I love John Grange very dearly, and that I would not let him leave here, weak, suffering, and in the dark, without knowing that his love was returned.”

Then, bending down, she took John Grange’s hand, and raised it to her lips.

“Good-bye!” she said softly.

“Mary!” cried her father, beside himself now with rage; and he once more snatched her away.

“Yes, father, I am ready,” she said quietly; “and you, who are always so good and just, will tell John Grange that you have cruelly misjudged him, before he goes.”

But James Ellis did not then, for drawing his child’s arm through his own, he hurried her away from the bothy, and home in silence to the cottage, where she flung herself sobbing in her mother’s arms, and crouched there, listening, while the angry man walked up and down, relieving himself of all he had seen.

Mrs Ellis’s pleasant countenance grew full of puckers, and she sat in silence, softly patting Mary’s shoulder with one hand, holding her tightly with the other, till her husband had ended with—

“Disgraceful—disgraceful, I say. I don’t know what Mrs Mostyn would think if she knew.”

“Well, I don’t know, my dear,” sighed Mrs Ellis, with the tears gently trickling down her cheeks, and dropping one by one like dew-drops on Mary’s beautiful hair. “Mrs Mostyn has been a dear, good mistress to us.”

“Yes, and a pretty business for her to hear—our child degrading herself like this.”

“’Tis very sad, James, but Mrs Mostyn made a runaway match with Captain Mostyn.”

“Eliza, are you mad too?”

“No, James, dear; but I’m afraid these are mysteries that men don’t quite understand.”

“Bah!”

“But they do not, dear. If you remember, my poor dear dad and your father were very angry about your wanting me. Dad said you were only a common gardener, but I felt—”

“Woman, you are as bad as your daughter,” raged James Ellis. “Was I a poor blind man?”

“No, my dear; for you always had very, very fine eyes, but—”

“Bah!” raged out James Ellis; and he went out and banged the door.