Caleb Plummer's room. There were Noah's Arks, in which the birds and
beasts were an uncommonly tight fit, I assure you; though they could be
crammed in, anyhow, at the roof, and rattled and shaken into the
smallest compass. Most of these Noah's Arks had knockers on the doors;
perhaps not exactly suitable to an Ark as suggestive of morning callers
and a postman, yet a pleasant finish to the outside of the building.
There were scores of melancholy little carts, which, when the wheels
went round, performed most doleful music. Many small fiddles, drums, and
other instruments of torture; no end of cannon, shields, swords, spears,
and guns. There were little tumblers in red breeches, incessantly
swarming up high obstacles of red-tape, and coming down, head first,
upon the other side; and there were innumerable old gentlemen of
respectable, even venerable, appearance, flying like crazy people over
pegs, inserted, for the purpose, in their own street-doors. There were
beasts of all sorts, horses, in particular, of every breed, from the
spotted barrel on four pegs, with a small tippet for a mane, to the fine
rocking horse on his highest mettle.
"You were out in the rain last night in your beautiful new overcoat,"
said Bertha.
"Yes, in my beautiful new overcoat," answered Caleb, glancing to where a
roughly-made garment of sackcloth was hung up to dry.
"How glad I am you bought it, father."
"And of such a tailor! quite a fashionable tailor; a bright blue cloth,
with bright buttons; it's a deal too good a coat for me."
"Too good!" cried the blind girl, stopping to laugh and clap her
hands--"as if anything was too good for my handsome father, with his
smiling face, and black hair, and his straight figure, as if _any_ thing
could be too good for my handsome father!"
"I'm half ashamed to wear it, though," said Caleb, watching the effect
of what he said upon her brightening face; "upon my word. When I hear
the boys and people say behind me: 'Halloa! Here's a swell!' I don't
know which way to look. And when the beggar wouldn't go away last night;
and, when I said I was a very common man, said 'No, your honor! Bless
your honor, don't say that!' I was quite ashamed. I really felt as if I
hadn't a right to wear it."
Happy blind girl! How merry she was in her joy!
"I see you, father," she said, clasping her hands, "as plainly as if I
had the eyes I never want when you are with me. A blue coat!"----
"Bright blue," said Caleb.
"Yes, yes! Bright blue!" exclaimed the girl, turning up her radiant
face; "the color I can just remember in the blessed sky! You told me it
was blue before! A bright blue coat----"
"Made loose to the figure," suggested Caleb.
"Yes! loose to the figure!" cried the blind girl, laughing heartily;
"and in it you, dear father, with your merry eye, your smiling face,
your free step, and your dark hair; looking so young and handsome!"
"Halloa! Halloa!" said Caleb. "I shall be vain presently."
"I think you are already," cried the blind girl, pointing at him, in her
glee. "I know you, father! Ha, ha, ha! I've found you out, you see!"
How different the picture in her mind from Caleb, as he sat observing
her! She had spoken of his free step. She was right in that. For years
and years he never once had crossed that threshold at his own slow pace,
but with a footfall made ready for her ear, and never had he, when his
heart was heaviest, forgotten the light tread that was to render hers so
cheerful and courageous.
"There we are," said Caleb, falling back a pace or two to form the
better judgment of his work; "as near the real thing as sixpen'orth of
halfpence is to sixpence. What a pity that the whole front of the house
opens at once! If there was only a staircase in it now, and regular
doors to the rooms to go in at! but that's the worst of my calling. I'm
always fooling myself, and cheating myself."
"You are speaking quite softly. You are not tired, father?"
"Tired," echoed Caleb, with a great burst in his manner, "what should
tire me, Bertha? _I_ was never tired. What does it mean?"
To give the greater force to his words, he stopped himself in an
imitation of two small stretching and yawning figures on the
mantel-shelf, who were shown as in one eternal state of weariness from
the waist upwards; and hummed a bit of a song. It was a drinking song,
something about a sparkling bowl; and he sang it with an air of a
devil-may-care voice, that made his face a thousand times more meager
and more thoughtful than ever.
"What! you're singing, are you?" said Tackleton, the toy-seller for whom
he worked, putting his head in at the door. "Go it! _I_ can't sing."
Nobody would have thought that Tackleton _could_ sing. He hadn't what is
generally termed a singing face, by any means.
"I can't afford to sing," said Tackleton. "I'm glad you can. I hope you
can afford to work, too. Hardly time for both, I should think?"
"If you could only see him, Bertha, how he's winking at me!" whispered
Caleb. "Such a man to joke! you'd think, if you didn't know him, he was
in earnest, wouldn't you, now?"
The blind girl smiled and nodded.
"I am thanking you for the little tree, the beautiful little tree,"
replied Bertha, bringing forward a tiny rose-tree in blossom, which, by
an innocent story, Caleb had made her believe was her master's gift,
though he himself had gone without a meal or two to buy it.
"The bird that can sing and won't sing must be made to sing, they say,"
grumbled Tackleton. "What about the owl that can't sing, and oughtn't to
sing, and will sing; is there anything that he should be made to do?"
"The extent to which he's winking at this moment!" whispered Caleb to
his daughter. "Oh, my gracious!"
"Always merry and light-hearted with us!" cried the smiling Bertha.
"Oh! you're there, are you?" answered Tackleton. "Poor idiot!"
He really did believe she was an idiot; and he founded the belief, I
can't say whether consciously or not, upon her being fond of him.
"Well! and being there--how are you?" said Tackleton, in his cross way.
"Oh! well; quite well. And as happy as even you can wish me to be. As
happy as you would make the whole world, if you could!"
"Poor idiot!" muttered Tackleton. "No gleam of reason! Not a gleam!"
The blind girl took his hand and kissed it; held it for a moment in her
own two hands; and laid her cheek against it tenderly, before releasing
it. There was such unspeakable affection and such fervent gratitude in
the act, that Tackleton himself was moved to say, in a milder growl than
usual:
"What's the matter now?"
"Bertha!" said Tackleton, assuming, for once, a little cordiality. "Come
here."
"Oh! I can come straight to you. You needn't guide me," she rejoined.
"Shall I tell you a secret, Bertha?"
"If you will!" she answered, eagerly.
How bright the darkened face! How adorned with light the listening head!
"This is the day on which little what's-her-name, the spoilt child,
Peerybingle's wife, pays her regular visit to you--makes her ridiculous
picnic here; ain't it?" said Tackleton, with a strong expression of
distaste for the whole concern.
"Yes," replied Bertha. "This is the day."
"I thought so!" said Tackleton. "I should like to join the party."
"Do you hear that, father!" cried the blind girl in delight.
"Yes, yes, I hear it," murmured Caleb, with the fixed look of a
sleep-walker "but I do not believe it. It's one of my lies, I've no
doubt."
"You see I--I want to bring the Peerybingles a little more into company
with May Fielding," said Tackleton. "I am going to be married to May."
"Married!" cried the blind girl, starting from him.
"She's such a confounded idiot," muttered Tackleton, "that I was afraid
she'd never understand me. Yes, Bertha! Married! Church, parson, clerk,
glass-coach, bells, breakfast, bride-cake, favors, marrow-bones,
cleavers, and all the rest of the tomfoolery. A wedding, you know; a
wedding. Don't you know what a wedding is?"
"I know," replied the blind girl, in a gentle tone. "I understand!"
"Do you?" muttered Tackleton. "It's more than I expected. Well, on that
account I want you to join the party, and to bring May and her mother.
I'll send a little something or other, before the afternoon. A cold leg
of mutton, or some comfortable trifle of that sort. You'll expect me?"
"Yes," she answered.
She had drooped her head, and turned away; and so stood, with her hands
crossed, musing.
"I don't think you will," muttered Tackleton, looking at her; "for you
seem to have forgotten all about it already. Caleb!"
"I may venture to say, I'm here, I suppose," thought Caleb. "Sir!"
"Take care she don't forget what I've been saying to her."
"_She_ never forgets," returned Caleb. "It's one of the few things she
ain't clever in."
"Every man thinks his own geese swans," observed the toy merchant, with
a shrug. "Poor devil!"
Having delivered himself of which remark with infinite contempt, old
Gruff & Tackleton withdrew.
Bertha remained where he had left her, lost in meditation. The gaiety
had vanished from her downcast face, and it was very sad. Three or four
times she shook her head, as if bewailing some remembrance or some loss;
but her sorrowful reflections found no vent in words.
"Father, I am lonely in the dark. I want my eyes; my patient, willing
eyes."
"Here they are," said Caleb. "Always ready. They are more yours than
mine, Bertha, any hour in the four-and-twenty. What shall your eyes do
for you, dear?"
"Look round the room, father."
"All right," said Caleb. "No sooner said than done, Bertha."
"Tell me about it."
"It's much the same as usual," said Caleb. "Homely, but very snug. The
gay colors on the walls; the bright flowers on the plates and dishes;
the shining wood, where there are beams or panels; the general
cheerfulness and neatness of the building, make it very pretty."
Cheerful and neat it was, wherever Bertha's hands could busy themselves.
But nowhere else were cheerfulness and neatness possible, in the crazy
shed which Caleb's fancy so transformed.
"You have your working dress on, and are not so gay as when you wear the
handsome coat?" said Bertha, touching him.
"Not quite so gay," answered Caleb. "Pretty brisk though."
"Father," said the blind girl, drawing close to his side and stealing
one arm round his neck, "tell me something about May. She is very fair."
"She is, indeed," said Caleb. And she was indeed. It was quite a rare
thing to Caleb not to have to draw on his invention.
"Her hair is dark," said Bertha, pensively, "darker than mine. Her voice
is sweet and musical I know. I have often loved to hear it. Her shape--"
"There's not a doll's in all the room to equal it," said Caleb. "And her
eyes--"
He stopped; for Bertha had drawn closer round his neck; and, from the
arm that clung about him, came a warning pressure which he understood
too well.
He coughed a moment, hammered for a moment, and then fell back upon the
song about the sparkling bowl; the song which helped him through all
such difficulties.
"Our friend, father; the one who has helped us so many times, Mr.
Tackleton. I am never tired you know, of hearing about him. Now was I,
ever?" she said, hastily.
"Of course not," answered Caleb. "And with reason."
"Ah! with how much reason?" cried the blind girl, with such fervency
that Caleb, though his motives were pure, could not endure to meet her
face, but dropped his eyes, as if she could have read in them his
innocent deceit.
"Then tell me again about him, dear father," said Bertha. "Many times
again! His face is good, kind, and tender. Honest and true, I am sure it
is. The manly heart that tries to cloak all favors with a show of
roughness and unwillingness beats in its every look and glance."
"And makes it noble," added Caleb in his quiet desperation.
"And makes it noble!" cried the blind girl. "He is older than May,
father?"
"Ye-es," said Caleb, reluctantly. "He's a little older than May, but
that don't signify."
"Bertha," said Caleb softly, "what has happened? How changed you are, my
darling, in a few hours--since this morning. _You_ silent and dull all
day! What is it? Tell me!"
"Oh father, father!" cried the blind girl, bursting into tears. "Oh, my
hard, hard fate!"
Caleb drew his hand across his eyes before he answered her.
"But think how cheerful and how happy you have been, Bertha! How good,
and how much loved, by many people."
"That strikes me to the heart, dear father! Always so mindful of me!
Always so kind to me!"
Caleb was very much perplexed to understand her.
"To be--to be blind, Bertha, my poor dear," he faltered, "is a great
affliction; but----"
"I have never felt it!" cried the blind girl. "I have never felt it in
its fullness. Never! I have sometimes wished that I could see you, or
could see him; only once, dear father; only for one little minute. But,
father! Oh, my good, gentle father, bear with me, if I am wicked!" said
the blind girl. "This is not the sorrow that so weighs me down!"
"Bertha, my dear!" said Caleb, "I have something on my mind I want to
tell you, while we are alone. Hear me kindly! I have a confession to
make to you, my darling."
"A confession, father?"
"I have wandered from the truth and lost myself, my child," said Caleb,
with a pitiable look on his bewildered face. "I have wandered from the
truth, intending to be kind to you; and have been cruel."
She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him, and repeated, "Cruel!
He cruel to me!" cried Bertha, with a smile of incredulity.
"Not meaning it, my child," said Caleb. "But I have been; though I never
suspected it till yesterday. My dear blind daughter, hear me and forgive
me! The world you live in, heart of mine, doesn't exist as I have
represented it. The eyes you have trusted in have been false to you."
She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him still.
"Your road in life was rough, my poor one," said Caleb, "and I meant to
smooth it for you. I have altered objects, invented many things that
never have been, to make you happier. I have had concealments from you,
put deceptions on you, God forgive me! and surrounded you with fancies."
"But living people are not fancies?" she said hurriedly, and turning
very pale, and still retiring from him. "You can't change them."
"I have done so, Bertha," pleaded Caleb. "There is one person that you
know, my Dove--"
"Oh, father! why do you say I know?" she answered in a tone of keen
reproach. "What and whom do I know! I, who have no leader! I, so
miserably blind!"
In the anguish of her heart she stretched out her hands, as if she were
groping her way; then spread them, in a manner most forlorn and sad,
upon her face.
"The marriage that takes place to-day," said Caleb, "is with a stern,
sordid, grinding man. A hard master to you and me, my dear, for many
years. Ugly in his looks and in his nature. Cold and callous always.
Unlike what I have painted him to you in everything, my child. In
everything."
"Oh, why," cried the blind girl, tortured, as it seemed, almost beyond
endurance, "why did you ever do this? Why did you ever fill my heart so
full, and then come in, like death, and tear away the objects of my
love? Oh, heaven, how blind I am! How helpless and alone!"
Her afflicted father hung his head, and offered no reply but in his
grief.
"Tell me what my home is. What it truly is."
"It is a poor place, Bertha; very poor and bare indeed. The house will
scarcely keep out wind and rain another winter. It is as roughly
shielded from the weather, Bertha, as your poor father in his sackcloth
coat."
"Those presents that I took such care of, that came almost at my wish,
and were so dearly welcome to me," she said, trembling; "where did they
come from?"
Caleb did not answer. She knew already, and was silent.
"I see, I understand," said Bertha, "and now I am looking at you, at my
kind, loving compassionate father, tell me what is he like?"
"An old man, my child; thin, bent, gray-haired, worn-out with hard work
and sorrow; a weak, foolish, deceitful old man."
The blind girl threw herself on her knees before him, and took his gray
head in her arms. "It is my sight, it is my sight restored," she cried.
"I have been blind, but now I see; I have never till now truly seen my
father. Does he think that there is a gay, handsome father in this earth
that I could love so dearly, cherish so devotedly, as this worn and
gray-headed old man? Father there is not a gray hair on your head that
shall be forgotten in my prayers and thanks to heaven."
"My Bertha!" sobbed Caleb, "and the brisk smart father in the blue
coat--he's gone, my child."
"Dearest father, no, he's not gone, nothing is gone, everything I loved
and believed in is here in this worn, old father of mine, and more--oh,
so much more, too! I have been happy and contented, but I shall be
happier and more contented still, now that I know what you are. I am
_not_ blind, father, any longer."
VI.
LITTLE NELL.
THE house where little Nell and her grandfather lived was one of those
places where old and curious things were kept, one of those old houses
which seem to crouch in odd corners of the town, and to hide their musty
treasures from the public eye in jealousy and distrust. There were suits
of mail standing like ghosts in armor, here and there; curious carvings
brought from monkish cloisters; rusty weapons of various kinds;
distorted figures in china, and wood, and iron, and ivory; tapestry, and
strange furniture that might have been designed in dreams; and in the
old, dark, dismal rooms there lived alone together the man and a
child--his grandchild, Little Nell. Solitary and dull as was her life,
the innocent and cheerful spirit of the child found happiness in all
things, and through the dim rooms of the old curiosity shop Little Nell
went singing, moving with gay and lightsome step.
[Illustration: Little Nell and Her Grandfather.
Page 86]
But gradually over the old man, whom she so tenderly loved, there stole
a sad change. He became thoughtful, sad and wretched. He had no sleep
or rest but that which he took by day in his easy-chair; for every
night, and all night long, he was away from home. To the child it seemed
that her grandfather's love for her increased, even with the hidden
grief by which she saw him struck down. And to see him sorrowful, and
not to know the cause of his sorrow; to see him growing pale and weak
under his trouble of mind, so weighed upon her gentle spirit that at
times she felt as though her heart must break.
At last the time came when the old man's feeble frame could bear up no
longer against his hidden care. A raging fever seized him, and, as he
lay delirious or insensible through many weeks, Nell learned that the
house which sheltered them was theirs no longer; that in the future they
would be very poor; that they would scarcely have bread to eat. At
length the old man began to mend, but his mind was weakened.
He would sit for hours together, with Nell's small hand in his, playing
with the fingers, and sometimes stopping to smooth her hair or kiss her
brow; and when he saw that tears were glistening in her eyes he would
look amazed. As the time drew near when they must leave the house, he
made no reference to the necessity of finding other shelter. An
indistinct idea he had that the child was desolate and in need of help;
though he seemed unable to understand their real position more
distinctly. But a change came upon him one evening, as he and Nell sat
silently together.
"Let us speak softly, Nell," he said. "Hush! for if they knew our
purpose they would say that I was mad, and take thee from me. We will
not stop here another day. We will travel afoot through the fields and
woods, and trust ourselves to God in the places where He dwells.
To-morrow morning, dear, we'll turn our faces from this scene of sorrow,
and be as free and happy as the birds."
The child's heart beat high with hope and confidence. She had no thought
of hunger, or cold, or thirst, or suffering. To her it seemed that they
might beg their way from door to door in happiness, so that they were
together.
When the day began to glimmer they stole out of the house, and, passing
into the street, stood still.
"Which way?" asked the child.
The old man looked doubtfully and helplessly at her, and shook his head.
It was plain that she was thenceforth his guide and leader. The child
felt it, but had no doubts or misgivings, and, putting her hand in his,
led him gently away. Forth from the city, while it yet was asleep went
the two poor wanderers, going, they knew not whither.
They passed through the long, deserted streets, in the glad light of
early morning, until these streets dwindled away, and the open country
was about them. They walked all day, and slept that night at a small
cottage where beds were let to travelers. The sun was setting on the
second day of their journey, and they were jaded and worn out with
walking, when, following a path which led through a churchyard to the
town where they were to spend the night, they fell in with two traveling
showmen, the exhibitors or keepers of a Punch and Judy show. These two
men raised their eyes when the old man and his young companion were
close upon them. One of them, the real exhibitor, no doubt, was a
little, merry-faced man with a twinkling eye and a red nose, who seemed
to be something like old Punch himself. The other--that was he who took
the money--had rather a careful and cautious look, which perhaps came
from his business also.
The merry man was the first to greet the strangers with a nod; and
following the old man's eyes, he observed that perhaps that was the
first time he had ever seen a Punch off the stage.
"Why do you come here to do this?" said the old man sitting down beside
them, and looking at the figures with extreme delight.
"Why, you see," rejoined the little man, "we're putting up for to-night
at the public house yonder, and it wouldn't do to let 'em see the
present company undergoing repair."
"No!" cried the old man, making signs to Nell to listen, "why not, eh?
why not?"
"Because it would destroy all the reality of the show and take away all
the interest, wouldn't it?" replied the little man. "Would you care a
ha'penny for the Lord Chancellor if you know'd him in private and
without his wig?--certainly not."[C]
"Good!" said the old man, venturing to touch one of the puppets, and
drawing away his hand with a shrill laugh. "Are you going to show 'em
to-night? are you?"
"That is the purpose, governor," replied the other, "and unless I'm much
mistaken, Tommy Codlin is a-calculating at this minute what we've lost
through your coming upon us. Cheer up, Tommy, it can't be much."
The little man accompanied these latter words with a wink, expressive
of the estimate he had formed of the travelers' pocketbook.
To this Mr. Codlin, who had a surly, grumbling manner, replied, as he
twitched Punch off the tombstone and flung him into the box:
"I don't care if we haven't lost a farden, but you're too free. If you
stood in front of the curtain and see the public's faces as I do, you'd
know human natur' better."
Turning over the figures in the box like one who knew and despised them,
Mr. Codlin drew one forth and held it up for the inspection of his
friend:
"Look here; here's all this Judy's clothes falling to pieces again. You
haven't got a needle and thread, I suppose?"
The little man shook his head and scratched it sadly, as he contemplated
this condition of a principal performer in his show. Seeing that they
were at a loss, the child said, timidly:
"I have a needle, sir, in my basket, and thread too. Will you let me try
to mend it for you? I think I could do it neater than you could."
Even Mr. Codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal so seasonable.
Nell, kneeling down beside the box, was soon busily engaged in her task,
and finished it in a wonderful way.
While she was thus at work, the merry little man looked at her with an
interest which did not appear to be any less when he glanced at her
helpless companion. When she had finished her work he thanked her, and
asked to what place they were traveling.
"N--no farther to-night, I think," said the child, looking toward her
grandfather.
"If you're wanting a place to stop at," the man remarked. "I should
advise you to take up at the same house with us. That's it. The long
low, white house there. It's very cheap."
They went to the little inn, and when they had been refreshed, the whole
house hurried away into an empty stable where the show stood, and where,
by the light of a few flaring candles stuck round a hoop which hung by a
line from the ceiling, it was to be forthwith shown.