"He accuses himself too strongly, Bertha," said Dot. "You'll say so
presently. You'll be the first to tell him so."
"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; 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 term 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?
O 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 honour 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!"