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; but drew back,
and clung closer to her friend.
"Your road in life was rough, my poor one," said Caleb, "and I meant to
smooth it for you. I have altered objects, changed the characters of
people, 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
penitence and sorrow.
She had been but a short time in this passion of regret, when the
Cricket on the Hearth, unheard by all but her, began to chirp. Not
merrily, but in a low, faint, sorrowing way. It was so mournful, that
her tears began to flow; and when the Presence which had been beside
the Carrier all night, appeared behind her, pointing to her father, they
fell down like rain.
She heard the Cricket-voice more plainly soon; and was conscious,
through her blindness, of the Presence hovering about her father.
"Mary," said the Blind Girl, "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," Dot continued in a low, clear voice,
"as your poor father in his sackcloth coat."
The Blind Girl, greatly agitated, rose, and led the Carrier's little
wife aside.
"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? Did you send them?"
"No."
"Who then?"
Dot saw she knew, already; and was silent. The Blind Girl spread her
hands before her face again. But in quite another manner now.
"Dear Mary, a moment. One moment! More this way. Speak softly to me. You
are true, I know. You'd not deceive me now; would you?"
"No, Bertha, indeed!"
"No, I am sure you would not. You have too much pity for me. Mary, look
across the room to where we were just now; to where my father is--my
father, so compassionate and loving to me--and tell me what you see."
"I see," said Dot, who understood her well; "an old man sitting in a
chair, and leaning sorrowfully on the back, with his face resting on his
hand. As if his child should comfort him, Bertha."
"Yes, yes. She will. Go on."
"He is an old man, worn with care and work. He is a spare, dejected,
thoughtful, grey-haired man. I see him now, despondent and bowed down,
and striving against nothing. But Bertha, I have seen him many times
before; and striving hard in many ways for one great sacred object. And
I honor his grey head, and bless him!"
The Blind Girl broke away from her; and throwing herself upon her knees
before him, took the grey head to her breast.
"It is my sight restored. It is my sight!" she cried. "I have been
blind, and now my eyes are open. I never knew him! To think I might have
died, and never truly seen the father, who has been so loving to me!"
There were no words for Caleb's emotion.
"There is not a gallant figure on this earth," exclaimed the Blind Girl,
holding him in her embrace, "that I would love so dearly, and would
cherish so devotedly, as this! The greyer, and more worn, the dearer,
father! Never let them say I am blind again. There's not a furrow in his
face, there's not a hair upon his head, that shall be forgotten in my
prayers and thanks to Heaven!"
Caleb managed to articulate "My Bertha!"
"And in my Blindness, I believed him," said the girl, caressing him with
tears of exquisite affection, "to be so different! And having him beside
me, day by day, so mindful of me always, never dreamed of this!"
"The fresh smart father in the blue coat, Bertha," said poor Caleb.
"He's gone!"
"Nothing is gone," she answered. "Dearest father, no! Everything is
here--in you. The father that I loved so well; the father that I never
loved enough, and never knew; the Benefactor whom I first began to
reverence and love, because he had such sympathy for me; All are here in
you. Nothing is dead to me. The Soul of all that was most dear to me is
here--here, with the worn face, and the grey head. And I am NOT blind,
father, any longer!"
Dot's whole attention had been concentrated, during this discourse, upon
the father and daughter; but looking, now, towards the little Haymaker
in the Moorish meadow, she saw that the clock was within a few minutes
of striking; and fell, immediately, into a nervous and excited state.
"Father," said Bertha, hesitating. "Mary."
"Yes my dear," returned Caleb. "Here she is."
"There is no change in _her_. You never told me anything of _her_ that
was not true?"
"I should have done it my dear, I am afraid," returned Caleb, "if I
could have made her better than she was. But I must have changed her
for the worse, if I had changed her at all. Nothing could improve her,
Bertha."
Confident as the Blind Girl had been when she asked the question, her
delight and pride in the reply, and her renewed embrace of Dot, were
charming to behold.
"More changes than you think for, may happen though, my dear," said Dot.
"Changes for the better, I mean; changes for great joy to some of us.
You mustn't let them startle you too much, if any such should ever
happen, and affect you? Are those wheels upon the road? You've a quick
ear, Bertha. Are they wheels?"
"Yes. Coming very fast."
"I--I--I know you have a quick ear," said Dot, placing her hand upon her
heart, and evidently talking on, as fast as she could, to hide its
palpitating state, "because I have noticed it often, and because you
were so quick to find out that strange step last night. Though why you
should have said, as I very well recollect you did say, Bertha, 'whose
step is that!' and why you should have taken any greater observation of
it than of any other step, I don't know. Though as I said just now,
there are great changes in the world: great changes: and we can't do
better than prepare ourselves to be surprised at hardly anything."
Caleb wondered what this meant; perceiving that she spoke to him, no
less than to his daughter. He saw her, with astonishment, so fluttered
and distressed that she could scarcely breathe; and holding to a chair,
to save herself from falling.
"They are wheels indeed!" she panted, "coming nearer! Nearer! Very
close! And now you hear them stopping at the garden gate! And now you
hear a step outside the door--the same step Bertha, is it not!--and
now!"--
She uttered a wild cry of uncontrollable delight; and running up to
Caleb put her hands upon his eyes, as a young man rushed into the room,
and flinging away his hat into the air, came sweeping down upon them.
"Is it over?" cried Dot.
"Yes!"
"Happily over?"
"Yes!"
"Do you recollect the voice, dear Caleb? Did you ever hear the like of
it before?" cried Dot.
"If my boy in the Golden South Americas was alive"--said Caleb,
trembling.
"He is alive!" shrieked Dot, removing her hands from his eyes, and
clapping them in ecstacy; "look at him! See where he stands before you,
healthy and strong! Your own dear son! Your own dear living, loving
brother, Bertha!"
All honor to the little creature for her transports! All honor to her
tears and laughter, when the three were locked in one another's arms!
All honor to the heartiness with which she met the sunburnt
Sailor-fellow, with his dark streaming hair, half way, and never turned
her rosy little mouth aside, but suffered him to kiss it, freely, and to
press her to his bounding heart!
And honor to the Cuckoo too--why not!--for bursting out of the trap-door
in the Moorish Palace like a housebreaker, and hiccoughing twelve times
on the assembled company, as if he had got drunk for joy!
The Carrier, entering, started back: and well he might: to find himself
in such good company.
"Look, John!" said Caleb, exultingly, "look here! My own boy from the
Golden South Americas! My own son! Him that you fitted out, and sent
away yourself; him that you were always such a friend to!"
The Carrier advanced to seize him by the hand; but recoiling, as some
feature in his face awakened a remembrance of the Deaf Man in the Cart,
said:
"Edward! Was it you?"
"Now tell him all!" cried Dot. "Tell him all, Edward; and don't spare
me, for nothing shall make me spare myself in his eyes, ever again."
"I was the man," said Edward.
"And could you steal, disguised, into the house of your old friend?"
rejoined the Carrier. "There was a frank boy once--how many years is it,
Caleb, since we heard that he was dead, and had it proved, we
thought?--who never would have done that."
"There was a generous friend of mine, once: more a father to me than a
friend:" said Edward, "who never would have judged me, or any other
man, unheard. You were he. So I am certain you will hear me now."
The Carrier, with a troubled glance at Dot, who still kept far away from
him, replied, "Well! that's but fair. I will."
"You must know that when I left here, a boy," said Edward, "I was in
love: and my love was returned. She was a very young girl, who perhaps
(you may tell me) didn't know her own mind. But I knew mine; and I had a
passion for her."
"You had!" exclaimed the Carrier. "You!"
"Indeed I had," returned the other. "And she returned it. I have ever
since believed she did; and now I am sure she did."
"Heaven help me!" said the Carrier. "This is worse than all."
"Constant to her," said Edward, "and returning, full of hope, after many
hardships and perils, to redeem my part of our old contract, I heard,
twenty miles away, that she was false to me; that she had forgotten me;
and had bestowed herself upon another and a richer man. I had no mind to
reproach her; but I wished to see her, and to prove beyond dispute that
this was true. I hoped she might have been forced into it, against her
own desire and recollection. It would be small comfort, but it would be
some, I thought: and on I came. That I might have the truth, the real
truth; observing freely for myself, and judging for myself, without
obstruction on the one hand, or presenting my own influence (if I had
any) before her, on the other; I dressed myself unlike myself--you know
how; and waited on the road--you know where. You had no suspicion of me;
neither had--had she," pointing to Dot, "until I whispered in her ear at
that fireside, and she so nearly betrayed me."
"But when she knew that Edward was alive, and had come back," sobbed
Dot, now speaking for herself, as she had burned to do, all through this
narrative; "and when she knew his purpose, she advised him by all means
to keep his secret close; for his old friend John Peerybingle was much
too open in his nature, and too clumsy in all artifice--being a clumsy
man in general," said Dot, half laughing and half crying--"to keep it
for him. And when she--that's me, John," sobbed the little woman--"told
him all, and how his sweetheart had believed him to be dead; and how she
had at last been over-persuaded by her mother into a marriage which the
silly, dear old thing called advantageous; and when she--that's me
again, John--told him they were not yet married (though close upon it),
and that it would be nothing but a sacrifice if it went on, for there
was no love on her side; and when he went nearly mad with joy to hear
it; then she--that's me again--said she would go between them, as she
had often done before in old times, John, and would sound his sweetheart
and be sure that what she--me again, John--said and thought was right.
And it WAS right, John! And they were brought together, John! And they
were married, John, an hour ago! And here's the Bride! And Gruff and
Tackleton may die a bachelor! And I'm a happy little woman, May, God
bless you!"
She was an irresistible little woman, if that be anything to the
purpose; and never so completely irresistible as in her present
transports. There never were congratulations so endearing and delicious,
as those she lavished on herself and on the Bride.
Amid the tumult of emotions in his breast, the honest Carrier had stood,
confounded. Flying, now, towards her, Dot stretched out her hand to stop
him, and retreated as before.
"No John, no! Hear all! Don't love me any more John, 'till you've heard
every word I have to say. It was wrong to have a secret from you, John.
I'm very sorry. I didn't think it any harm, till I came and sat down by
you on the little stool last night; but when I knew by what was written
in your face, that you had seen me walking in the gallery with Edward;
and knew what you thought; I felt how giddy and how wrong it was. But
oh, dear John, how could you, could you, think so!"
Little woman, how she sobbed again! John Peerybingle would have caught
her in his arms. But no; she wouldn't let him.
"Don't love me yet, please John! Not for a long time yet! When I was sad
about this intended marriage, dear, it was because I remembered May and
Edward such young lovers; and knew that her heart was far away from
Tackleton. You believe that, now. Don't you John?"
John was going to make another rush at this appeal; but she stopped him
again.
"No; keep there, please John! When I laugh at you, as I sometimes do,
John; and call you clumsy, and a dear old goose, and names of that sort,
it's because I love you John, so well; and take such pleasure in your
ways; and wouldn't see you altered in the least respect to have you made
a King to-morrow."
"Hooroar!" said Caleb with unusual vigour. "My opinion!"
"And when I speak of people being middle-aged, and steady, John, and
pretend that we are a humdrum couple, going on in a jog-trot sort of
way, it's only because I'm such a silly little thing, John, that I like,
sometimes, to act a kind of Play with Baby, and all that: and make
believe."
She saw that he was coming; and stopped him again. But she was very
nearly too late.
"No, don't love me for another minute or two, if you please John! What I
want most to tell you, I have kept to the last. My dear, good, generous
John; when we were talking the other night about the Cricket, I had it
on my lips to say, that at first I did not love you quite so dearly as I
do now; that when I first came home here, I was half afraid I mightn't
learn to love you every bit as well as I hoped and prayed I might--being
so very young, John. But, dear John, every day and hour, I loved you
more and more. And if I could have loved you better than I do, the noble
words I heard you say this morning, would have made me. But I can't. All
the affection that I had (it was a great deal John) I gave you, as you
well deserve, long, long, ago, and I have no more left to give. Now, my
dear Husband, take me to your heart again! That's my home, John; and
never, never think of sending me to any other!"
You never will derive so much delight from seeing a glorious little
woman in the arms of a third party, as you would have felt if you had
seen Dot run into the Carrier's embrace. It was the most complete,
unmitigated, soul-fraught little piece of earnestness that ever you
beheld in all your days.
You may be sure the Carrier was in a state of perfect rapture; and you
may be sure Dot was likewise; and you may be sure they all were,
inclusive of Miss Slowboy, who cried copiously for joy, and, wishing to
include her young charge in the general interchange of congratulations,
handed round the Baby to everybody in succession, as if it were
something to drink.
But now the sound of wheels was heard again outside the door; and
somebody exclaimed that Gruff and Tackleton was coming back. Speedily
that worthy gentleman appeared: looking warm and flustered.
"Why, what the Devil's this, John Peerybingle!" said Tackleton. "There's
some mistake. I appointed Mrs. Tackleton to meet me at the church; and
I'll swear I passed her on the road, on her way here. Oh! here she is! I
beg your pardon Sir; I haven't the pleasure of knowing you; but if you
can do me the favour to spare this young lady, she has rather a
particular engagement this morning."
"But I can't spare her," returned Edward. "I couldn't think of it."
"What do you mean, you vagabond?" said Tackleton.
"I mean, that as I can make allowance for your being vexed," returned
the other, with a smile, "I am as deaf to harsh discourse this morning,
as I was to all discourse last night."
The look that Tackleton bestowed upon him, and the start he gave!
"I am sorry Sir," said Edward, holding out May's left hand, and
especially the third finger, "that the young lady can't accompany you to
church; but as she has been there once, this morning, perhaps you'll
excuse her."
Tackleton looked hard at the third finger; and took a little piece of
silver-paper, apparently containing a ring, from his waistcoat pocket.
"Miss Slowboy," said Tackleton. "Will you have the kindness to throw
that in the fire? Thank'ee."
"It was a previous engagement: quite an old engagement: that prevented
my wife from keeping her appointment with you, I assure you," said
Edward.
"Mr. Tackleton will do me the justice to acknowledge that I revealed it
to him faithfully; and that I told him, many times, I never could forget
it," said May, blushing.
"Oh certainly!" said Tackleton. "Oh to be sure. Oh it's all right. It's
quite correct. Mrs. Edward Plummer, I infer?"
"That's the name," returned the bridegroom.
"Ah! I shouldn't have known you Sir," said Tackleton: scrutinizing his
face narrowly, and making a low bow. "I give you joy Sir!"
"Thank'ee."
"Mrs. Peerybingle," said Tackleton, turning suddenly to where she stood
with her husband; "I am sorry. You haven't done me a very great
kindness, but upon my life I am sorry. You are better than I thought
you. John Peerybingle, I am sorry. You understand me; that's enough.
It's quite correct, ladies and gentlemen all, and perfectly
satisfactory. Good morning!"
With these words he carried it off, and carried himself off too: merely
stopping at the door, to take the flowers and favors from his horse's
head, and to kick that animal once in the ribs, as a means of informing
him that there was a screw loose in his arrangements.
Of course it became a serious duty now, to make such a day of it, as
should mark these events for a high Feast and Festival in the
Peerybingle Calendar for evermore. Accordingly, Dot went to work to
produce such an entertainment, as should reflect undying honour on the
house and every one concerned; and in a very short space of time, she
was up to her dimpled elbows in flour, and whitening the Carrier's coat,
every time he came near her, by stopping him to give him a kiss. That
good fellow washed the greens, and peeled the turnips, and broke the
plates, and upset iron pots full of cold water on the fire, and made
himself useful in all sorts of ways: while a couple of professional
assistants, hastily called in from somewhere in the neighbourhood, as on
a point of life or death, ran against each other in all the doorways and
round all the corners; and everybody tumbled over Tilly Slowboy and the
Baby, everywhere. Tilly never came out in such force before. Her
ubiquity was the theme of general admiration. She was a stumbling-block
in the passage at five and twenty minutes past two; a man-trap in the
kitchen at half-past two precisely; and a pitfall in the garret at five
and twenty minutes to three. The Baby's head was, as it were, a test
and touchstone for every description of matter, animal, vegetable, and
mineral. Nothing was in use that day that didn't come, at some time or
other, into close acquaintance with it.
Then, there was a great Expedition set on foot to go and find out Mrs.
Fielding; and to be dismally penitent to that excellent gentlewoman; and
to bring her back, by force if needful, to be happy and forgiving. And
when the Expedition first discovered her, she would listen to no terms
at all, but said, an unspeakable number of times, that ever she should
have lived to see the day! and couldn't be got to say anything else,
except "Now carry me to the grave;" which seemed absurd, on account of
her not being dead, or anything at all like it. After a time, she lapsed
into a state of dreadful calmness, and observed, that when that
unfortunate train of circumstances had occurred in the Indigo Trade, she
had foreseen that she would be exposed, during her whole life, to every
species of insult and contumely; and that she was glad to find it was
the case; and begged they wouldn't trouble themselves about her,--for
what was she? oh, dear! a nobody!--but would forget that such a being
lived, and would take their course in life without her. From this
bitterly sarcastic mood, she passed into an angry one, in which she gave
vent to the remarkable expression that the worm would turn if trodden
on; and after that, she yielded to a soft regret, and said, if they had
only given her their confidence, what might she not have had it in her
power to suggest! Taking advantage of this crisis in her feelings, the
Expedition embraced her; and she very soon had her gloves on, and was on
her way to John Peerybingle's in a state of unimpeachable gentility;
with a paper parcel at her side containing a cap of state, almost as
tall, and quite as stiff, as a Mitre.
Then, there were Dot's father and mother to come, in another little
chaise; and they were behind their time; and fears were entertained; and
there was much looking out for them down the road; and Mrs. Fielding
always would look in the wrong and morally impossible direction; and
being apprised thereof, hoped she might take the liberty of looking
where she pleased. At last they came: a chubby little couple, jogging
along in a snug and comfortable little way that quite belonged to the
Dot family: and Dot and her mother, side by side, were wonderful to see.
They were so like each other.
Then, Dot's mother had to renew her acquaintance with May's mother; and
May's mother always stood on her gentility; and Dot's mother never stood
on anything but her active little feet. And old Dot: so to call Dot's
father; I forgot it wasn't his right name, but never mind: took
liberties, and shook hands at first sight, and seemed to think a cap but
so much starch and muslin, and didn't defer himself at all to the Indigo
trade, but said there was no help for it now; and, in Mrs. Fielding's
summing up, was a good-natured kind of man--but coarse, my dear.
I wouldn't have missed Dot, doing the honors in her wedding-gown: my
benison on her bright face! for any money. No! nor the good Carrier, so
jovial and so ruddy, at the bottom of the table. Nor the brown, fresh
sailor-fellow, and his handsome wife. Nor any one among them. To have
missed the dinner would have been to miss as jolly and as stout a meal
as man need eat; and to have missed the overflowing cups in which they
drank The Wedding Day, would have been the greatest miss of all.
After dinner, Caleb sang the song about the Sparkling Bowl! As I'm a
living man: hoping to keep so, for a year or two: he sang it through.
And, by-the-by, a most unlooked-for incident occurred, just as he
finished the last verse.
There was a tap at the door; and a man came staggering in, without
saying with your leave, or by your leave, with something heavy on his
head. Setting this down in the middle of the table, symmetrically in the
centre of the nuts and apples, he said:
"Mr. Tackleton's compliments, and as he hasn't got no use for the cake
himself, p'raps you'll eat it."
And with those words, he walked off.