The Dutch clock in the corner
struck Ten, when the Carrier
sat down by his fireside. So
troubled and grief-worn, that
he seemed to scare the Cuckoo,
who, having cut his ten melodious
announcements as short as possible,
plunged back into the Moorish
Pal- ace again, and clapped his
little door behind him, as if
the unwonted spectacle were too
much for his
feelings.
If the little Haymaker had been
armed with the sharpest of scythes,
and had cut at every stroke into
the Carrier's heart, he never
could have gashed and wounded
it, as Dot had done.
It was a heart so full of love
for her; so bound up and held
together by innumerable threads
of win- ning remembrance, spun
from the daily working of her
many qualities of endearment;
it was a heart in which she had
enshrined herself so gently and
so closely; a heart so single
and so earnest in its Truth,
so strong in right, so weak in
wrong; that it could cherish
neither passion nor revenge at
first, and had only room to hold
the broken image of its Idol.
But, slowly, slowly, as the
Carrier sat brooding on his hearth,
now cold and dark, other and
fiercer thoughts began to rise
within him, as an angry wind
comes rising in the night. The
Stranger was beneath his outraged
roof. Three steps would take
him to his chamber-door. One
blow would beat it in. 'You might
do murder before you know it,'
Tackleton had said. How could
it be murder, if he gave the
villain time to grapple with
him hand to hand! He was the
younger man.
It was an ill-timed thought,
bad for the dark mood of his
mind. It was an angry thought,
goading him to some avenging
act, that should change the cheerful
house into a haunted place which
lonely travellers would dread
to pass by night; and where the
timid would see shadows struggling
in the ruined windows when the
moon was dim, and hear wild noises
in the stormy weather.
He was the younger man! Yes,
yes; some lover who had won the
heart that he had never touched.
Some lover of her early choice,
of whom she had thought and dreamed,
for whom she had pined and pined,
when he had fancied her so happy
by his side. O agony to think
of it!
She had been above-stairs with
the Baby, getting it to bed.
As he sat brooding on the hearth,
she came close beside him, without
his knowledge -- in the turn-
ing of the rack of his great
misery, he lost all other sounds
-- and put her little stool at
his feet. He only knew it, when
he felt her hand upon his own,
and saw her looking up into his
face.
With wonder? No. It was his
first impression, and he was
fain to look at her again, to
set it right. No, not with wonder.
With an eager and inquiring look;
but not with wonder. At first
it was alarmed and serious; then,
it changed into a strange, wild,
dreadful smile of recognition
of his thoughts; then, there
was nothing but her clasped hands
on her brow, and her bent head,
and falling hair.
Though the power of Omnipotence
had been his to wield at that
moment, he had too much of its
diviner property of Mercy in
his breast, to have turned one
feather's weight of it against
her. But he could not bear to
see her crouching down upon the
little seat where he had often
looked on her, with love and
pride, so innocent and gay; and,
when she rose and left him, sobbing
as she went, he felt it a relief
to have the vacant place beside
him rather than her so long cherished
presence. This in itself was
an- guish keener than all, reminding
him how desolate he was become,
and how the great bond of his
life was rent asunder.
The more he felt this, and the
more he knew he could have better
borne to see her lying prematurely
dead before him with their little
child upon her breast, the higher
and the stronger rose his wrath
against his enemy. He looked
about him for a weapon.
There was a gun, hanging on
the wall. He took it down, and
moved a pace or two towards the
door of the perfidious Stranger's
room. He knew the gun was loaded.
Some shadowy idea that it was
just to shoot this man like a
wild beast, seized him, and dilated
in his mind until it grew into
a monstrous demon in complete
possession of him, casting out
all milder thoughts and setting
up its undivided empire.
That phrase is wrong. Not casting
out his milder thoughts, but
artfully transforming them. Chang-
ing them into scourges to drive
him on. Turning water into blood,
love into hate, gentleness into
blind ferocity. Her image, sorrowing,
humbled, but still pleading to
his tenderness and mercy with
resistless power, never left
his mind; but, staying there,
it urged him to the door; raised
the weapon to his shoulder; fitted
and nerved his finger to the
trigger; and cried 'Kill him!
In his bed!'
He reversed the gun to beat
the stock upon the door; he already
held it lifted in the air; some
in- distinct design was in his
thoughts of calling out to him
to fly, for God's sake, by the
window --
When, suddenly, the struggling
fire illumined the whole chimney
with a glow of light; and the
Cricket on the Hearth began to
Chirp!
No sound he could have heard,
no human voice, not even hers,
could so have moved and softened
him. The artless words in which
she had told him of her love
for this same Cricket, were once
more freshly spoken; her trembling,
earnest manner at the moment,
was again before him; her pleasant
voice -- O what a voice it was,
for making household music at
the fireside of an honest man!
-- thrilled through and through
his better nature, and awoke
it into life and action.
He recoiled from the door, like
a man walking in his sleep, awakened
from a frightful dream; and put
the gun aside. Clasping his hands
before his face, he then sat
down again beside the fire, and
found relief in tears.
The Cricket on the Hearth came
out into the room, and stood
in Fairy shape before him.
' "I love it," ' said the Fairy
Voice, repeating what he well
remembered, ' "for the many times
I have heard it, and the many
thoughts its harmless music has
given me." '
'She said so!' cried the Carrier.
'True!'
' "This has been a happy home,
John; and I love the Cricket
for its sake!" '
'It has been, Heaven knows,'
returned the Carrier. She made
it happy, always, -- until now.'
'So gracefully sweet-tempered;
so domestic, joy- ful, busy,
and light-hearted!' said the
Voice.
'Otherwise I never could have
loved her as I did,' returned
the Carrier.
The Voice, correcting him, said
'do.'
The Carrier repeated 'as I did.'
But not firmly. His faltering
tongue resisted his control,
and would speak in its own way,
for itself and him.
The Figure, in an attitude of
invocation, raised its hand and
said:
'Upon your own hearth --'
'The hearth she has blighted,'
interposed the Carrier.
'The hearth she has -- how often!
-- blessed and brightened,' said
the Cricket; 'the hearth which,
but for her, were only a few
stones and bricks and rusty bars,
but which has been through her,
the Altar of your Home; on which
you have nightly sacrificed some
petty passion, selfishness, or
care, and offered up the homage
of a tranquil mind, a trusting
nature, and an overflowing heart;
so that the smoke from this poor
chimney has gone upward with
a better fragrance than the richest
incense that is burnt before
the richest shrines in all the
gaudy temples of this world!
-- Upon your own hearth; in its
quiet sanc- tuary; surrounded
by its gentle influences and
asso- ciations; hear her! Hear
me! Hear everything that speaks
the language of your hearth and
home!'
'And pleads for her?' inquired
the Carrier.
'All things that speak the language
of your hearth and home, must
plead for her!' returned the
Cricket. 'For they speak the
truth.'
And while the Carrier, with
his head upon his hands, continued
to sit meditating in his chair,
the Presence stood beside him,
suggesting his reflections by
its power, and presenting them
before him, as in a glass or
picture. It was not a solitary
Presence. From the hearthstone,
from the chimney, from the clock,
the pipe, the kettle, and the
cradle; from the floor, the walls,
the ceiling, and the stairs;
from the cart without, and the
cupboard within, and the house-
hold implements; from every thing
and every place with which she
had ever been familiar, and with
which she had ever entwined one
recollection of her self in her
unhappy husband's mind; Fairies
came trooping forth. Not to stand
beside him as the Cricket did,
but to busy and bestir themselves.
To do all honour to her image.
To pull him by the skirts, and
point to it when it appeared.
To cluster round it, and embrace
it, and strew flowers for it
to tread on. To try to crown
its fair head with their tiny
hands. To show that they were
fond of it and loved it; and
that there was not one ugly,
wicked, or accusatory creature
to claim knowledge of it -- none
but their playful and approving
selves.
His thoughts were constant to
her image. It was always there.
She sat plying her needle, before
the fire, and sing- ing to herself.
Such a blithe, thriving, steady
little Dot! The fairy figures
turned upon him all at once,
by one consent, with one prodigious
concentrated stare, and seemed
to say 'Is this the light wife
you are mourning for!'
There were sounds of gaiety
outside, musical in- struments,
and noisy tongues, and laughter.
A crowd of young merrymakers
came pouring in; among whom were
May Fielding and a score of pretty
girls. Dot was the fairest of
them all; as young as any of
them too. They came to summon
her to join their party It was
a dance. If ever little foot
were made for dancing, hers was,
surely. But she laughed, and
shook her head, and pointed to
her cookery on the fire, and
her table ready spread: with
an exulting defiance that rendered
her more charming than she was
before. And so she merrily dismissed
them, nod- ding to her would-be
partners, one by one, as they
passed; but with a comical indifference,
enough to make them go and drown
themselves immediately if they
were her admirers -- and they
must have been so, more or less;
they couldn't help it. And yet
indifference was not her character.
O no! For pres- ently, there
came a certain Carrier to the
door; and bless her what a welcome
she bestowed upon him!
Again the staring figures turned
upon him all at once, and seemed
to say 'Is this the wife who
has forsaken you!'
A shadow fell upon the mirror
or the picture: call it what
you will. A great shadow of the
Stranger, as he first stood underneath
their roof; covering its surface,
and blotting out all other objects.
But the nimble Fairies worked
like bees to clear it off again.
And Dot again was there. Still
bright and beautiful.
Rocking her little Baby in its
cradle, singing to it softly,
and resting her head upon a shoulder
which had its counterpart in
the musing figure by which the
Fairy Cricket stood.
The night -- mean the real night:
not going by Fairy clocks --
was wearing now; and in this
stage of the Carrier's thoughts,
the moon burst out, and shone
brightly in the sky. Perhaps
some calm and quiet light had
risen also, in his mind; and
he could think more soberly of
what had happened.
Although the shadow of the Stranger
fell at in- tervals upon the
glass -- always distinct, and
big, and thoroughly defined --
it never fell so darkly as at
first. Whenever it appeared,
the Fairies uttered a general
cry of consternation, and plied
their little arms and legs, with
inconceivable activity, to rub
it out. And whenever they got
at Dot again, and showed her
to him once more, bright and
beautiful, they cheered in the
most inspiring manner.
They never showed her, otherwise
than beautiful and bright, for
they were Household Spirits to
whom falsehood is annihilation;
and being so, what Dot was there
for them, but the one active,
beaming, pleasant little creature
who had been the light and sun
of the Carrier's Home!
The Fairies were prodigiously
excited when they showed her,
with the Baby, gossiping among
a knot of sage old matrons, and
affecting to be wondrous old
and matronly herself, and leaning
in a staid, de- mure old way
upon her husband's arm, attempting
-- she! such a bud of a little
woman -- to convey the idea of
having abjured the vanities of
the world in general, and of
being the sort of person to whom
it was no novelty at all to be
a mother; yet in the same breath,
they showed her, laughing at
the Car- rier for being awkward,
and pulling up his shirt- collar
to make him smart, and mincing
merrily about that very room
to teach him how to dance!
They turned, and stared immensely
at him when they showed her with
the Blind Girl; for, though she
carried cheerfulness and animation
with her wheresoever she went,
she bore those influences into
Caleb Plummer's home, heaped
up and running over The Blind
Glrl's love for her, and trust
in her, and gratitude to her;
her own good busy way of setting
Bertha's thanks aside; her dexterous
little arts for filling up each
moment of the visit in doing
some- thing useful to the house,
and really working hard while
feigning to make holiday; her
bountiful pro- vision of those
standing delicacies, the Veal
and Ham- Pie and the bottles
of Beer; her radiant little face
arriving at the door, and taking
leave; the wonderful expression
in her whole self, from her neat
foot to the crown of her head,
of being a part of the establish-
ment -- a something necessary
to it, which it couldn't be without;
all this the Fairies revelled
in, and loved her for. And once
again they looked upon him all
at once, appealingly, and seemed
to say, while some among them
nestled in her dress and fondled
her, 'Is this the wife who has
betrayed your confidence!'
More than once, or twice, or
thrice, in the long thoughtful
night, they showed her to him
sitting on her favourite seat,
with her bent head, her hands
clasped on her brow, her falling
hair. As he had seen her last.
And when they found her thus,
they neither turned nor looked
upon him, but gathered close
round her, and comforted and
kissed her, and pressed on one
another to show sympathy and
kind- ness to her, and forgot
him altogether.
Thus the night passed. The moon
went down; the stars grew pale;
the cold day broke; the sun rose.
The Carrier still sat, musing
in the chimney corner. He had
sat there, with his head upon
his hands, all night. All night
the faithful Cricket had been
Chirp, Chirp, Chirping on the
Hearth All night he had listened
to its voice. All night the household
Fairies had been busy with him.
All night she had been amiable
and blameless in the glass, except
when that one shadow fell upon
it.
He rose up when it was broad
day, and washed and dressed himself.
He couldn't go about his cus-
tomary cheerful avocations --
he wanted spirit for them --
but it mattered the less, that
it was Tackle- ton's wedding-day,
and he had arranged to make his
rounds by proxy. He thought to
have gone merrily to church with
Dot. But such plans were at an
end. It was their own wedding-day
too. Ah! how little he had looked
for such a close to such a year!
The Carrier had expected that
Tackleton would pay him an early
visit; and he was right. He had
not walked to and fro before
his own door, many minutes, when
he saw the Toy-merchant coming
in his chaise along the road.
As the chaise drew nearer, he
perceived that Tackleton was
dressed out sprucely for his
marriage, and that he had decorated
his horse's head with flowers
and favours.
The horse looked much more like
a bridegroom than Tackleton,
whose half-closed eye was more
dis- agreebly expressive than
ever. But the Carrier took little
heed of this. His thoughts had
other occupation.
'John Peerybingle!' said Tackleton,
with an air of condolence. 'My
good fellow, how do you find
yourself this morning?'
'I have had but a poor night,
Master Tackleton,' returned the
Carrier shaking his head: 'for
I have been a good deal disturbed
in my mind. But it's over now!
Can you spare me half an hour
or so, for some private talk?'
'I came on purpose,' returned
Tackleton, alight- ing. 'Never
mind the horse. He'll stand quiet
enough, with the reins over this
post, if you'll give him a mouthful
of hay.'
The Carrier having brought it
from his stable, and set it before
him, they turned into the house.
'You are not married before
noon ?' he said, 'I think?'
'No,' answered Tackleton. 'Plenty
of time. Plenty of time.'
When they entered the kitchen,
Tilly Slowboy was rapping at
the Stranger's door; which was
only re- moved from it by a few
steps. One of her very red eyes
(for Tilly had been crying all
night long, be- cause her mistress
cried) was at the keyhole; and
she was knocking very loud; and
seemed frightened.
'If you please I can't make
nobody hear,' said Tilly, looking
round. 'I hope nobody an't gone
and been and died if you please!'
This philanthropic wish, Miss
Slowboy emphasised with various
new raps and kicks at the door;
which led to no result whatever.
'Shall I go?' said Tackieton.
'It's curious.'
The Carrier, who had turned
his face from the door, signed
to him to go if he would.
So Tackleton went to Tilly Slowboy's
relief; and he too kicked and
knocked; and he too failed to
get the least reply. But he thought
of trying the handle of the door;
and as it opened easily, he peeped
in, looked in, went in, and soon
came running out again.
'John Peerybingle,' said Tackleton,
in his ear. 'I hope there has
been nothing -- nothing rash
in the night?'
The Carrier turned upon him
quickly.
'Because he's gone!' said Tackleton;
'and the win- dows open. I don't
see any marks -- to be sure it's
almost on a level with the garden:
but I was afraid there might
have been some -- some scuffle.
Eh?'
He nearly shut up the expressive
eye altogether; he looked at
him so hard. And he gave his
eye, and bis face, and his whole
person, a sharp twist. As if
he would have screwed the truth
out of him.
'Make yourself easy,' said the
Carrier. 'He went into that room
last night, without harm in word
or deed from me, and no one has
entered it since. He is away
of his own free will. I'd go
out gladly at that door, and
beg my bread from house to house,
for life, if I could so change
the past, that he had never come.
But he has come and gone. And
I have done with him!'
'Oh! -- Well, I think he has
got off pretty easy,' said Tackleton,
taking a chair.
The sneer was lost upon the
Carrier, who sat down too, and
shaded his face with his hand,
for some little time, before
proceeding.
'You showed me last night,'
he said at length, 'my wife;
my wife that I love; secretly
--'
'And tenderly,' insinuated Tackleton.
'Conniving at that man's disguise,
and giving him opportunities
of meeting her alone. I think
there's no sight I wouldn't have
rather seen than that. I think
there's no man in the world I
wouldn't have rather had to show
it to me.'
'I confess to having had my
suspicions always,' said Tackleton.
'And that has made me objection-
able here, I know.'
'But as you did show it me,'
pursued the Carrier, not minding
him; 'and as you saw her, my
wife, my wife that I love'--
his voice, and eye, and hand,
grew steadier and firmer as he
repeated these words; evi- dently
in pursuance of a steadfast purpose
-- 'as you saw her at this disadvantage,
it is right and just that you
should also see with my eyes,
and look into my breast, and
know what my mind is, upon the
sub- ject. For it's settled,'
said the Carrier, regarding him
attentively. 'And nothing can
shake it now.'
Tackleton muttered a few general
words of assent, about its being
necessary to vindicate something
or other; but he was overawed
by the manner of his companion.
Plain and unpolished as it was,
it had a something dignified
and noble in it, which nothing
but the soul of generous honour
dwelling in the man could have
imported.
'I am a plain, rough man,' pursued
the Carrier. 'with very little
to recommend me. I am not a clever
man, as you very well know. I
am not a young man. I loved my
little Dot, because I had seen
her grow up, from a child, in
her father's house; because I
knew how precious she was; because
she had been my life, for years
and years. There's many men I
can't compare with, who never
could have loved my little Dot
like me, I think!'
He paused, and softly beat the
ground a short time with his
foot, before resuming.
'I often thought that though
I wasn't good enough for her,
I should make her a kind husband,
and per- haps know her value
better than another; and in this
way I reconciled it to myself,
and came to think it might be
possible that we should be married.
And in the end it came, and we
were married.'
'Hah!' said Tackleton, with
a significant shake of the head.
'I had studied myself; I had
had experience of my- self; I
knew how much I loved her, and
how happy I should be, pursued
the Carrier. 'But I had not --
I feel it now -- sufficiently
considered her.'
'To be sure,' said Tackleton.
'Giddiness, frivolity, fickleness,
love of admiration! Not considered!
All left out of sight! Hah!'
'You had best not interrupt
me,' said the Carrier wlth some
sternness, 'till you understand
me, and you're wide of doing
so. If, yesterday, I'd have struck
that man down at a blow, who
dared to breathe a word against
her, to-day I'd set my foot upon
his face, if he was my brother!'
The Toy-merchant gazed at him
in astonishment. He went on in
a softer tone:
'Did I consider,' said the Carrier,
'that I took her -- at her age,
and with her beauty -- from her
young companion, and the many
scenes of which she was the ornament;
in which she was the brightest
little star that ever shone,
to shut her up from day to day
in my dull house, and keep my
tedious company? Did I consider
how little suited I was to her
sprightly humour, and how wearisome
a plodding man like me must be,
to one of her quick spirit? Did
I consider that it was no merit
in me, or claim in me, that I
loved her, when everybody must,
who knew her? Never. I took advantage
of her hopeful nature and her
cheerful disposition; and I married
her. I wish I never had! For
her sake; not for mine!'
The Toy-merchant gazed at him,
without winking. Even the half-shut
eye was open now.
'Heaven bless her!' said the
Carrier, 'for the cheer- ful
constancy with which she tried
to keep the knowl- edge of this
from me! And Heaven help me,
that, in my slow mind, I have
not found it out before! Poor
child! Poor Dot! I not to find
it out, who have seen her eyes
fill with tears, when such a
mar- riage as our own was spoken
of! I, who have seen the secret
trembling on her lips a hundred
times, and never suspected it
till last night! Poor girl! That
I could ever hope she would be
fond of me! That I could ever
believe she was!'
'She made a show of it,' said
Tackleton. 'She made such a show
of it, that to tell you the truth
it was the origin of my misgivings.'
And here he asserted the superiority
of May Field- ing, who certainly
made no sort of show of being
fond of him.
'She has tried,' said the poor
Carrier, with greater emotion
than he had exhibited yet; 'I
only now begin to know how hard
she has tried, to be my dutiful
and zealous wife. How good she
has been; how much she has done;
how brave and strong a heart
she has; let the happiness I
have known under this roof bear
witness! It will be some help
and comfort to me, when I am
here alone.'
'Here alone?' said Tackleton.
'Oh! Then you do mean to take
some notice of this?'
'I mean,' returned the Carrier,
'to do her the great- est kindness,
and make her the best reparation,
in my power. I can release her
from the daily pain of an unequal
marriage, and the struggle to
conceal it. She shall be as free
as I can render her.'
'Make her reparation!' exclaimed
Tackleton, twist- ing and turning
his great ears with his hands.
'There must be something wrong
here. You didn't say that, of
course.'
The Carrier set his grip upon
the collar of the Toy- merchant,
and shook him like a reed.
'Listen to me!' he said. 'And
take care that you hear me right.
Listen to me. Do I speak plainly?'
'Very plainly indeed,' answered
Tackleton.
'As if I meant it?'
'Very much as if you meant it.'
'I sat upon that hearth, last
night, all night,' ex- claimed
the Carrier. 'On the spot where
she has often sat beside me,
with her sweet face looking into
mine. I called up her whole life,
day by day. I had her dear self,
in its every passage, in review
before me. And upon my soul she
is innocent, if there is One
to judge the innocent and guilty!'
Staunch Cricket on the Hearth!
Loyal household Fairies!
'Passion and distrust have left
me!' said the Car- rier; 'and
nothing but my grief remains.
In an un- appy moment some old
lover, better suited to her tastes
and years than I; forsaken, perhaps,
for me, against her will; returned.
In an unhappy moment, taken by
surprise, and wanting time to
think of what she did, she made
herself a party to his treachery,
by concealing it. Last night
she saw him, in the interview
we witnessed. It was wrong. But
other- wise than this she is
innocent if there is truth on
earth!'
'If that is your opinion ' Tackleton
began.
'So let her go!' pursued the
Carrier. 'Go, with my blessing
for the many happy hours she
has given me, and my forgiveness
for any pang she has caused me.
Let her go, and have the peace
of mind I wish her. She'll never
hate me. She'll learn to like
me better, when I'm not a drag
upon her, and she wears the chain
I have riveted, more lightly.
This is the day on which I took
her, with so little thought for
her enjoyment, from her home.
To-day she shall return to it,
and I will trouble her no more.
Her father and mother will be
here to-day -- we had made a
little plan for keeping it together
-- and they shall take her home.
I can trust her, there, or anywhere.
She leaves me without blame,
and she will live so I am sure.
If I should die -- I may perhaps
while she is still young; I have
lost some courage in a few hours
-- she'll find that I remembered
her, and loved her to the last!
This is the end of what you showed
me. Now, it's over!'
'O no, John, not over. Do not
say it's over yet! Not quite
yet. I have heard your noble
words. I could not steal away,
pretending to be ignorant of
what has affected me with such
deep gratitude. Do not say it's
over, till the clock has struck
again!'
She had entered shortly after
Tackleton, and had remained there.
She never looked at Tackleton,
but fixed her eyes upon her husband.
But she kept away from him, setting
as wide a space as possible between
them; and though she spoke with
most impassioned earnestness,
she went no nearer to him even
then. How different in this from
her old self!
'No hand can make the clock
which will strike again for me
the hours that are gone,' replied
the Carrier, with a faint smile.
'But let it be so, if you will,
my dear. It will strike soon.
It's of little matter what we
say. I'd try to please you in
a harder case than that.'
'Well!' muttered Tackleton.
'I must be off, for when the
clock strikes again, it'll be
necessary for me to be upon my
way to church. Good-morning,
John Peerybingle. I'm sorry to
be deprived of the pleasure of
your company. Sorry for the loss,
and the occasion of it too!'
'I have spoken plainly?' said
the Carrier, accom- panying him
to the door.
'Oh quite!'
'And you'll remember what I
have said?'
'Why, if you compel me to make
the observation,' said Tackleton,
previously taking the precaution
of getting into his chaise; 'I
must say that it was so very
unexpected, that I'm far from
being likely to forget it.'
'The better for us both,' returned
the Carrier. Good-bye. I give
you joy!'
'I wish I could give it to you,'
said Tackleton. 'As I can't;
thank'ee. Between ourselves,
(as I told you before, eh?) I
don't much think I shall have
the less joy in my married life,
because May hasn't been too officious
about me, and too demonstrative.
Good- bye! Take care of yourself.'
The Carrier stood looking after
him until he was smaller in the
distance than his horse's flowers
and favours near at hand; and
then, with a deep sigh, went
strolling like a restless, broken
man, among some neighbouring
elms; unwilling to return until
the clock was on the eve of striking.
His little wife, being left
alone, sobbed piteously; but
often dried her eyes and checked
herself, to say how good he was,
how excellent he was ! and once
or twice she laughed; so heartlly,
triumphantly, and incoherently
(still crying all the time),
that Tilly was quite horrified.
'Ow if you please don't!' said
Tilly. 'It's enough to dead and
bury the Baby, so it is if you
please.'
'Will you bring him sometimes
to see his father, Tilly,' inquired
her mistress, drying her eyes;
'when I can't live here, and
have gone to my old home?'
'Ow if you please don't!' cried
Tilly, throwing back her head,
and bursting out into a howl
-- she looked at the moment uncommonly
like Boxer; 'Ow if you please
don't! Ow, what has everybody
gone and been and done with everybody,
making everybody else so wretched!
Ow-w-w-w!'
The soft-hearted Slowboy trailed
off at this junc- ture, into
such a deplorable howl, the more
tremen- dous from its long suppression,
that she must infal- libly have
awakened the Baby, and frightened
him into something serious (probably
convulsions), if her eyes had
not encountered Caleb Plummer,
leading in his daughter. This
spectacle restoring her to a
sense of the proprieties, she
stood for some few moments silent,
with her mouth wide open; and
then, posting off to the bed
on which the Baby lay asleep,
danced in a weird, Saint Vitus
manner on the floor, and at the
same time rummaged with her face
and head among the bedclothes,
apparently deriving much re-
lief from those extraordinary
operations.
'Mary!' said Bertha. 'Not at
the marriage!'
'I told her you would not be
there mum,' whispered Caleb.
'I heard as much last night.
Bless you,' said the little man,
taking her tenderly by both hands,
'I don't care for what they say.
I don't believe them. There an't
much of me, but that little should
be torn to pieces sooner than
I'd trust a word against you!'
He put hls arms about her and
hugged her, as a child might
have hugged one of his own dolls.
'Bertha couldn't stay at home
this morning,' said Caleb. She
was afraid, I know, to hear the
bells ring, and couldn't trust
herself to be so near them on
their wedding-day. So we started
in good time, and came here.
I have been thinking of what
I have done,' said Caleb, after
a moment's pause, 'I have been
blaming myself till I hardly
knew what to do or where to turn,
for the distress of mind I have
caused her; and I've come to
the conclusion that better, if
you'll stay with me, mum, the
while, tell her the truth. You'll
stay with me the while?' he inquired,
trembling from head to foot.
'I don't know what effect it
may have upon her; I don't know
what she'll think of me; I don't
know that she'll ever care for
her poor father afterwards. But
it's best for her that she should
be undeceived, and I must hear
the consequences as I deserve!'
'Mary,' said Bertha, 'where
is your hand! Ah! Here it is;
here it is!' pressing it to her
lips, with a smile, and drawing
it through her arm. 'I heard
them speaking softly among themselves,
last night of some blame against
you. They were wrong.' The Carrier's
Wife was silent. Caleb answered
for her.
'They were wrong,' he said.
'I knew it!' cried Bertha, proudly.
'I told them so. I scorned to
hear a word! Blame her with jus-
ice!' she pressed the hand between
her own, and the soft cheek against
her face. 'No! I am not so blind
as that.'
Her father went on one side
of her, while Dot remained upon
the other: holding her hand
'I know you all,' said Bertha,
'better than you think. But none
so well as her. Not even you,
father. There is nothing half
so real and so true about me,
as she is. If I could be restored
to sight this instant, and not
a word were spoken, I could choose
her from a crowd! My sister!'
'Bertha, my dear!' said Caleb,
I have something on my mind I
want to tell you, while we three
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 expression
in 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 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, in-
vented many things that never
have been to make you happier.
I have had concealments from
you, put deceptions on you, God
forgive me! and sur- rounded
you with fancies.'
'But living people are not fancies!'
she said hur- riedly, 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 an- swered, in a
term of keen reproach. 'What
and whom do I know! I who have
no leader! I so miser- ably 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 every- thing, 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
elpless and alone!'
Her afflicted father hug 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 sack-cloth
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 throw- ing 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,' ex- claimed 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, dur- ing 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,' retumed 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,' re- turned 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
re- ply 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
talk- ing 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 hand from his eyes,
and clapping them in ecstasy;
'look at him! See where he stands
before you, healthy and loving
brother, Bertha!'
All honour to the little creature
for her transports! All honour
to her tears and laughter, when
the three were locked in one
another's arms! All honour 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 bound-
ing heart!
And honour 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, Ed- ward; 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 re- turned 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 tbat 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
my- self -- 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
her- self, as she had burned
to do, all through this narra-
tive; '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 to- gether, John.
And they were married, John,
an hour ago! And here's the Bride!
And Gruff and Tackle- ton may
die a bachelor! And I'm a happy
little woman, May, God bless
you!'
She was an irresistible little
woman, if that be any- thing
to the purpose; and never so
completely irre- sistible 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
when I 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 Peery- bingle 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
mar- riage, 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 ap- peal; 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 be- cause
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 affec- tion 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, un- mitigated,
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 per- fect rapture;
and you may be sure Dot was likewise;
and you may be sure they all
were, incluslve of Miss Slowboy,
who wept copiously for joy, and
wishing to include her younger
charge in the general inter-
change 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 out- aide 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 engage- ment, that
prevented my wife from keeping
her ap- pointment with you, I
assure you,' said Edward
'Mr. Tackleton will do me the
justice to acknowl- edge 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 Tackle- ton,
scrutinising his face narrowly,
and making a low bow. I give
you joy, sir!'
'Thank ee.'
'Mrs. Peerybingle,' said Tackleton,
turning sud- denly 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 him- self
off too: merely stopping at the
door, to take the flowers and
favours 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 un- dying honour
on the house and on every one
con- cerned; 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 stop- ping 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 every- body tumbled
over Tilly Slowboy and the Baby,
everywhere. Tilly never came
out in such force be- fore. Her
ubiquity was the theme of general
admir- ation. 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,
is 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 acquaintaince
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 for-
giving. And when the Expedition
first discovered her, she would
listen to no terms at all, but
said, an un- speakable number
of times, that ever she should
have lived to see the day! and
couldn't be got to say any- thing
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 expres-
sion 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 Expedi- tion 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. Field- ing
always would look in the wrong
and morally im- possible 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 woudn't have missed Dot, doing
the honours 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 Spark- ling Bowl.
As I'm a living man, hoping to
keep so, for a year or two, he
sang it through.
And, by the bye, a most unlooked-for
incident oc- curred, just as
he finished the last verse.
There was a tap at the door;
and a man came stag- gering 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.
There was some surprise among
the company, as you may imagine.
Mrs. Fielding, being a lady of
infinite discernment, suggested
that the cake was poisoned, and
related a narrative of a cake,
which, within her knowledge,
had turned a seminary for young
ladies, blue. But she was overruled
by ac- clamation; and the cake
was cut by May, with much ceremony
and rejoicing.
I don't think any one had tasted
it, when there came another tap
at the door, and the same man
ap- peared again, having under
his arm a vast brown- paper parcel.
'Mr. Tackleton's compliments,
and he's sent a few toys for
the Babby. They ain't ugly.'
After the delivery of which
expressions, he retired again.
The whole party would have experienced
great difficulty in finding words
for their astonishment, even
if they had had ample time to
seek them. But, they had none
at all; for, the messenger had
scarcely shut the door behind
him, when there came another
tap and Tackleton himself walked
in.
'Mrs. Peerybingle!' said the
Toy-merchant, hat in hand. 'I'm
sorry. I'm more sorry than I
was this morning. I have had
time to think of it. John Peery-
bingle! I'm sour by disposition;
but I can't help being sweetened,
more or less, by coming face
to face with such a man as you.
Caleb! This uncon- scious little
nurse gave me a broken hint last
night of which I have found the
thread. I blush to think how
easily I might have bound you
and your daugh- ter to me, and
what a miserable idiot I was,
when I took her for one! Friends,
one and all, my house is very
lonely to-night. I have not so
much as a Cricket on my Hearth.
I have scared them all away.
Be gracious to me; let me join
this happy party!'
He was at home in five minutes.
You never saw such a fellow.
What had he been doing with himself
all his life, never to have known,
before, his great ca- pacity
of being jovial! Or what had
the fairies been doing with him,
to have effected such a change!
'John! you won't send me home
this evening; will you?' whispered
Dot.
He had been very near it though!
There wanted but one living
creature to make the party complete;
and, in the twinkling of an eye,
there he was, very thirsty with
hard running, and engaged in
hopeless endeavours to squeeze
his head into a nar- row pitcher.
He had gone with the cart to
its jour- ney's end, very much
disgusted with the absence of
his master, and stupendously
rebellious to the Deputy. After
lingering about the stable for
some little time, vainly attempting
to incite the old horse to the
muti- nous act of returning on
his own account, he had walked
into the tap-room and laid himself
down be- fore the fire. But suddenly
yielding to the convic- tion
that the Deputy was a humbug,
and must be abandoned, he had
got up again, turned tail, and
come home.
There was a dance in the evening.
With which general mention of
that recreation, I should have
left it alone, if I had not some
reason to suppose that it was
quite an original dance, and
one of a most uncom- mon figure.
It was formed in an odd way;
in this way.
Edward, that sailor-fellow --
a good free dashing sort of a
fellow he was -- had been telling
them various marvels concerning
parrots, and mines, and Mexicans,
and gold dust, when all at once
he took it in his head to jump
up from his seat and propose
a dance; for Bertha's harp was
there, and she had such a hand
upon it as you seldom hear. Dot
(sly little piece of affectation
when she chose) said her dancing
days were over; I think because
the Carrier was smoking his pipe,
and she liked sitting by him,
best. Mrs. Fielding had no choice,
of course, but to say her danc-
ing days were over, after that;
and everybody said the same,
except May; May was ready.
So, May and Edward get up, amid
great applause, to dance alone;
and Bertha plays her liveliest
tune.
Well! if you'll believe me,
they have not been danc- ing
five minutes, when suddenly the
Carrier flings his pipe away,
takes Dot round the waist, dashes
out into the room, and starts
off with her, toe and heel, quite
wonderfully. Tackleton no sooner
sees this, than he skims across
to Mrs. Fielding, takes her round
the waist, and follows suit.
Old Dot no sooner sees this,
than up he is, all alive, whisks
off Mrs. Dot in the middle of
the dance, and is the foremost
there. Caleb no sooner sees this,
than he clutches Tilly Slowboy
by both hands and goes off at
score; Miss Slowboy, firm in
the belief that diving hotly
in among the other couples, and
effecting any number of concussions
witb them, is your only principle
of footing it.
Hark! how the Cricket joins
the music with its Chirp, Chirp,
Chirp; and how the kettle hums!
* * * * * * * *
But what is this! Even as I
listen to them, blithely and
turn towards Dot, for one last
glimpse of a little, figure very
pleasant to me, she and the rest
have van- ished into air, and
I am left alone. A Cricket sings
upon the Hearth; a broken child's-toy
lies upon the ground; and nothing
else remains. |