Part 18

May seemed to know which to do, for the color flashed into her face and tears stood in her eyes.

“We little thought how things would come about,” said Dot. “I never fixed on John, I’m sure; I never so much as thought of him. And if I had told you you were ever to be married to Mr. Tackleton--why, you’d have slapped me, wouldn’t you, May?”

Though May didn’t say yes, she certainly didn’t say no, or express no, by any means.

Tackleton laughed--quite shouted, he laughed so loud. John Peerybingle laughed too, in his ordinary, good-natured and contented manner; but his was a mere whisper of a laugh compared to Tackleton’s.

“You couldn’t help yourselves for all that,” said Tackleton. “You couldn’t resist us, you see. Here we are! Here we are! Where are your gay young bridegrooms now?”

“Some of them are dead,” said Dot; “and some of them forgotten. Some of them, if they could stand among us at this moment, would not believe that we are the same creatures, because they would not believe we _could_ forget them so. No! they would not believe one word of it!”

“Why, Dot!” exclaimed the carrier. “Little woman!” And Dot kept quiet, while Tackleton looked at her through his half-shut eye.

May uttered no word, good or bad, but sat quite still, with her eyes downcast, and made no sign of interest in what had passed. Her mother, however, observed that girls were girls, and bygones were bygones, and that so long as young people were young and thoughtless, they would probably conduct themselves like young and thoughtless persons. She then remarked that she thanked heaven that she had always found in May a dutiful and obedient child, for which she took no credit to herself, though she had every reason to believe it was owing to herself. With regard to Mr. Tackleton, she said that he was a son-in-law to be desired, as no one in their senses could doubt.

Now, the meal ended, John Peerybingle rose to go, for he only stopped to feed his horse, and to enjoy the social hour before finishing his route. He would call for Dot on his way back. This was always the program on picnic days.

“Good-by,” he said, pulling on his dreadnought coat. “I shall be back at the usual time. Good-by, all.”

Then he called Boxer, and soon the old horse and the cart were making lively music down the road.

Caleb and Bertha were talking together at one end of the room.

“So bring me the precious baby, Tilly,” said Dot, drawing a chair to the fire; “and while I have him in my lap, here’s Mrs. Fielding, Tilly, who will tell me all about the management of babies, and straighten me out in twenty points where I’m as wrong as can be. Won’t you, Mrs. Fielding?”

Here Tackleton walked out, and Mrs. Fielding, sitting bolt upright in front of Dot, gave her such a marvelous collection of receipts and rules that would, if Dot had carried them out, have utterly destroyed the young Peerybingle, even if he had been an infant Samson.

Now Dot brought her needlework out of her pocket, and had a whispering chat with May while the old lady dozed, and after a while Caleb and Bertha joined them, and all found it a very short afternoon.

Then as it grew dark, since it was the solemn rule that Bertha should do no household tasks on the days of the picnics, Dot trimmed the fire, and swept the hearth, and set the tea-tray out, and drew the curtains, and lighted a candle. Then she played an air or two on a rude kind of harp which Caleb had made for Bertha, and played them very well; for Nature had made her delicate little ear as choice a one for music as it would have been for jewels--if she had had them to wear.

By this time, it was the usual hour for tea, and Tackleton came back again, to share the meal and spend the evening.

When it was night, and tea was over, and Dot had nothing more to do after washing the cups and saucers--when the time drew near for the carrier’s return, Dot began to grow nervous. Every time she heard the sound of distant wheels, her color came and went, and she was restless. Not as good wives are when listening for their husbands. No, no, no. It was a different sort of restlessness from that.

Soon wheels were heard very near--horse’s feet--the barking of a dog--and then the scratching of Boxer’s paw.

“Whose step is that?” cried Bertha, starting up.

“‘Whose step’?” said the carrier, standing in the door, his brown face ruddy as a winter berry from the keen night air. “Why, mine.”

“The other step,” Bertha said. “The man’s tread behind you!”

“She’s not to be deceived,” observed the carrier, laughing. “Come along, sir. You’ll be welcome, never fear!”

_The Shadow on the Hearth_

He spoke in a loud tone; and as he spoke, the deaf old gentleman entered.

“He’s not so much a stranger that you haven’t seen him once, Caleb,” said the carrier. “You’ll give him house-room till we go?”

“Oh, surely, John, and take it as an honor.”

“He’s the best company on earth to talk secrets in,” said John. “I have reasonably good lungs, but he tried them, I’ll tell you.” Turning to the old gentleman, he spoke in a loud voice again, “Sit down, sir. All friends here, and glad to see you.”

Then he added in his natural tone, “A chair in the chimney-corner, and leave to sit silent and look pleasantly about him is all he cares for. He’s easily pleased.”

Bertha had been listening intently. She called Caleb to her side, and when he came, asked him, in a low voice, to describe their visitor. When he had done so, she moved away and showed no further interest in him.

The carrier was in high spirits, good fellow that he was, and fonder of his little wife than ever.

“Some folks may think it queer,” he said jokingly, putting his rough arm about her, as she stood apart from the others, “but I like this little lady somehow. Look yonder, Dot.”

He pointed to the old man. She looked down. I think she trembled.

“He’s--ha, ha, ha!--he is so fond of you that he talked of nothing else the whole way here. I like him for it.”

“I wish he had a better subject, John,” she said with an uneasy glance about the room--at Tackleton especially.

“A better subject!” cried the jovial John. “There’s no such thing. Come! Off with the great-coat, off with this thick shawl, off with the heavy wrappings! And now for a cozy half-hour by the fire. How would it please you, Mrs. Fielding, to have a game of cards, you and I? All right? Where are the cards, Dot--and will you let us have a cup of tea here if there’s any left, small wife?”

Soon the carrier and the old lady were deep within the game. At first the carrier looked about him sometimes with a smile, or now and then called Dot to peep over his shoulder to advise him on some knotty point. But soon he became so absorbed that he had neither eyes nor ears to spare, and his whole attention was upon the cards, and he thought of nothing else, until a hand was laid upon his shoulder.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” said Tackleton in a low voice, “but I want a word with you, please.”

“It’s my turn to deal,” returned the carrier. “Can you wait?”

“No,” said Tackleton. “Come on, man.”

There was an expression in his pale face which made John rise immediately, and ask him in a hurry what the matter was.

“Hush, John Peerybingle,” said Tackleton. “I am sorry for this. I am indeed. I have been afraid of it. I have suspected it from the first.”

“What is it?” asked the carrier in alarm.

“Hush! I’ll show you if you’ll come with me.”

The carrier accompanied him without another word. They went across the yard, where the stars were shining, and by a little side door they entered Tackleton’s own counting-house. There, through a window, they could look into a window of the wareroom where the boxes of toys were kept. The counting-house was closed for the night, and there was no light, but a dim light was burning in the wareroom, so they could easily see within.

“Wait a moment!” said Tackleton. “Can you bear to look through that window, do you think?”

“Why not?” asked the carrier.

“It will be a shock,” said Tackleton. “Promise not to do anything violent.”

And then John looked, and what do you think he saw?

He saw his dear young wife with the old man--old no longer, but straight and handsome, holding in his hands his soft white hair with which he had made every one think him old and treat him so kindly. He saw her listening to him as he bent his head to whisper in her ear, and then let him place his arm about her waist and lead her slowly to the door. He saw her, with her own hands, adjust the wig on his head, laughing as she did so!

John felt weak as an infant as Tackleton led him back to the house.

He was wrapped up to the chin and busy with his horse and parcels when she came into the room, ready for going home.

“Now, John, dear! Good-night, May! Good-night, Bertha,” she said.

How could she kiss them? How be so blithe and gay in her parting? Why didn’t she blush? Tackleton as well as John wondered.

Tilly was hushing the baby and as she walked to and fro, she was repeating drowsily: “Did they thought that it was to be its wives wring its heart almost to breaking? and did it weep all nights when nobody was there to see it?”

“Now, Tilly, give me the baby,” said little Mrs. Peerybingle. “Good-night, Mr. Tackleton. Where’s John, for goodness’ sake?”

“He’s going to walk beside the horse’s head,” said Tackleton, who helped her into the cart.

“My dear John! Walk?--to-night?”

The muffled figure of her husband made a hasty sign; and the Stranger and nurse being by this time in their places, the old horse moved off, Boxer running on before, running back, running round and round the cart, and barking merrily.

When Tackleton had gone off likewise, taking May and her mother, poor Caleb sat down by the fire beside his daughter. The toys that had been wound and set in motion for the baby had run down long ago. In the silence one might have imagined that they had been stricken motionless with wonder at Dot being false, or Tackleton beloved under any set of circumstances.

Presently Bertha spoke.

“After Mr. Tackleton is married, we shall not see so much of him, shall we, Father?”

“Well, we might--that is to say--” began Caleb.

“How I should love to be like May, Father, and have my eyes so that I might serve him, might show my love for him, who has been so good, so kind, so dear.”

Poor Caleb! How often he said to himself as he looked at her, in remorse, “Have I deceived her from her cradle, thinking to make her happier, but to break her heart at last?”

XXXVI

CHIRP THE THIRD

_John Listens to the Cricket_

THE Dutch clock in the corner struck ten, when the carrier sat down at his fireside. So troubled was he that he scarcely heard the cuckoo as it counted off the strokes.

He could scarcely believe what his eyes had seen in the wareroom of Gruff and Tackleton. If any one had told him, he would not have believed his Dot could be a party to such dreadful deceit.

Yet, in his own heart, he did not blame her, but rather the old young man who had been so wickedly unfair, and he was planning to do him harm to pay him back. He hoped that Dot would be able to explain; but no--there really wasn’t any hope of that.

There, she was coming.

She had been upstairs with the baby, putting it to bed.

As he sat brooding near the hearth, she came close to him, and put her little stool at his feet. He then felt her hand upon his own, and knew she was looking up in his face.

He glanced at her. She looked as sweet as ever, until she caught the expression on his face. At first she seemed surprised, then her surprise changed in a wild recognition of his thoughts, and she simply bent her head and clasped her hands, but no words were said.

At length she rose and went away, and he felt glad, for the first time since he had known her, to have her gone.

There was a gun hanging on the wall. He took it down, and moved toward the Stranger’s room. He put his hand to the door--when suddenly the struggling fire burst into 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 very words in which she had told him of her love for this same cricket were as if just spoken in her sweet, pleasant voice, making household music; and they thrilled through and through his better nature, and awoke it into life and action.

He moved from the door like a man who had been walking in his sleep when awakening from a frightful dream. He put the gun aside. Clasping his hands before his face, he sat down again beside the fire.

The cricket on the hearth came out into the room and stood in fairy shape before him.

“‘I love it’,” said the fairy voice, “‘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.’”

“She’s so sweet-tempered, so cheerful, busy, light-hearted. Otherwise I never could have loved her as I did.”

The voice, correcting him, said, “do.”

“You should trust her,” the fairy voice said.

All night long he listened to the voice. All night long the household fairies were busy with him, showing him how sweet and dear she was; how he had never found her untrue, or had reason to doubt her except this once.

He rose up when it was broad day, and washed and tidied himself.

He could not go on his usual rounds, for it was Tackleton’s wedding day. He had planned to go merrily to the church with Dot. But such plans were at an end. Ah! what a different wedding anniversary he had expected!

_John Blames Himself_

The carrier had thought that Tackleton would pay him an early visit, and he was right. He had just finished brushing his hair when he saw the merchant in his carriage coming along the road. As the carriage drew near he saw that Tackleton was dressed out sprucely for marriage, and that he had decorated his horse’s head with flowers and favors.

The horse looked much more like a bridegroom than Tackleton, whose half-closed eye was more disagreeably expressive than ever. But the carrier took little heed of this. His thoughts were elsewhere.

“John Peerybingle!” said Tackleton. “My good fellow, how do you find yourself this morning?”

“I have had but a poor night, Mr. Tackleton,” said 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 lightly. “Never mind the horse. He’ll stand quiet enough if you’ll give him a mouthful of hay.”

“You are not to be married before noon, I think?” said John.

“No,” answered Tackleton. “Plenty of time. Plenty of time.”

When they entered the kitchen, Tilly Slowboy was knocking at the Stranger’s door. One of her very red eyes was at the keyhole, for she had been crying because her mistress cried. She was knocking very loud, and seemed frightened.

“If you please, I can’t make nobody hear,” said Tilly, looking round. “I hope nobody ain’t gone and been and died, if you please.”

This hope Miss Slowboy made more emphatic by kicking on the door, but it led to no result.

“Shall I help?” asked Tackleton, turning to John.

The carrier nodded his head.

So Tackleton went to the door and he, too, kicked and knocked; and he, too, failed to get any reply. But he thought of trying the handle of the door, and as it opened easily, he peeped in, went in, and soon came running out again.

“He’s gone!” said Tackleton; “and the window’s open. I don’t see any marks--to be sure--or signs of a fight, but I thought perhaps you might have been so angry----”

He nearly shut up the expressive eye altogether, he looked at John so hard. And he gave his eye, and his face, and his whole body, a sharp twist, as if he would have screwed the truth out of John.

“Make yourself easy,” said the carrier. “He went into that room last night without harm in word or act from me, and no one has entered it since. He has gone away of his own free will.”

“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 in his hand for some time before speaking.

“You showed me last night,” he said at length, “my wife, my dear wife that I love, deceiving me, and meeting a strange man who had deceived me. I think there’s no man in the world I wouldn’t rather have had show it to me.”

“I confess I know that I am not a favorite in your home, John, because I never believed wholly in your pretty little wife,” said Tackleton.

“And as you did show me, and as you saw her to such disadvantage, it is right you should know what my mind is on the subject. For it’s settled, and nothing can change it.”

Tackleton muttered a few words about its being necessary to decide, but he was overawed by the manner of his companion. Plain and unpolished as it was, there was something noble and dignified about it.

“I am a plain, rough man,” continued 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 in my life for years and years.”

He paused a moment, then went on.

“I often thought that though I wasn’t good enough for her, I should make her a kind husband, and perhaps appreciate her better than another. And so it came about we were married.”

“Hah!” said Tackleton, with a shake of his head.

“I knew how much I loved her, and how happy I should be,” continued the carrier; “but I had not sufficiently considered her.”

“No,” said Tackleton. “No; you didn’t stop to think how giddy, frivolous, fickle, vain! Hah!”

“You’d better not interrupt me,” said the carrier, with some sternness, “till you understand me, which you seem far from doing.”

The toy merchant looked at him in surprise.

“I didn’t consider that I took her, at her age, with her beauty, away from her young companions and their many scenes of pleasure into my dull house and my tedious society. I didn’t consider how little suited I was to her fun and humor, and how wearisome I must be to one of her quick spirit. No! I took advantage of her hopeful nature, and I married her. I shouldn’t have done so!”

The toy merchant gazed at him without winking. Even the half-shut eye was now open.

“Heaven bless her!” said the carrier, “for the cheerful way she has tried not to let me see how it was! Heaven help me, that, in my slow mind I have not found it out before. Poor child! Poor Dot! Strange I did not realize when I have seen her eyes fill with tears on hearing of such a marriage as our own spoken of. How good and kind she has been! The thought will comfort me when I am here alone.”

“Here alone?” said Tackleton. “Then you do mean to take some notice of her deceit?”

“I mean,” answered the carrier, “to do her the greatest kindness in my power--to try to make it all up to her. She shall be free to go where she will.”

“Make it up to her!” exclaimed Tackleton, twisting and turning his great ears with his hands. “I must have heard wrong. You didn’t say that, of course.”

“Didn’t I speak plainly?” said the carrier, giving the toy merchant a shake.

“Very plainly indeed,” answered Tackleton.

“As if I meant it?”

“Very much as if you meant it.”

“Anger and distrust have left me,” said the carrier; “and nothing but my grief remains. In an unhappy moment some old lover, better suited to her years than I, returned. Last night she saw him in the interview we witnessed. It was wrong. But otherwise than this, she is innocent if there is truth on earth! I should not have taken her from her home. She shall return to it, and I will trouble her no more. Her father and mother will be here to-day, and they shall take her home. This is the end of what you showed me. Now, it’s over.”

“Oh, no, John, not over. Do not say it’s over yet. Not quite yet. I heard your noble words. I could not steal out again, letting you think me ignorant of what you said. Do not say it’s over--’till the clock has struck again!”

Dot had entered quietly while John and Tackleton were talking, and had heard every word.

“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.”

“Well!” muttered Tackleton. “I must be off, for when it strikes again, I must be on my way to church. Good-by, John Peerybingle.”

The carrier saw him to the door, watched his horse until it disappeared in the distance, and then went out himself.

His little wife, being left alone, sobbed piteously, but often dried her tears to say how good and dear he was!--and once or twice she laughed through her tears so heartily and triumphantly 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 to see me sometimes,” inquired her mistress, “when I don’t live here, and have gone to my old home?”

“Ow, if you please, don’t!” cried Tilly, throwing back her head. She looked a great deal like Boxer when he howled. “Ow, if you please, don’t! What has everybody gone and been and done with everybody, making everybody so miserable? Ow-w-w!”

_Caleb Confesses His Deceit_

And she might have kept on, if just at that moment Caleb Plummer had not come in, leading his daughter.

“Why, Mary” (which was Dot’s other name, you remember). “Why, Mary!” said Bertha. “Not at the wedding?”

“I told her you would not be there, mum,” whispered Caleb. “I heard as much last night. But bless you,” said the little man, “I don’t care what they say. I don’t believe them. There ain’t much of me, but what little there is would be torn to pieces sooner than I’d believe a word against you!”

He put his arms around her neck and hugged her very much as a child might have hugged one of the dolls he had made.

“Bertha wanted to come see you instead of going to the wedding,” said Caleb, “so we started in good time. I often wish I had not deceived her in regard to Tackleton, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d better tell her the truth. You’ll stay with us while I tell her, won’t you, mum?” 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 father afterwards. But it’s best she should be undeceived, and I must bear the consequences as I deserve.”

“Mary,” said Bertha, “where is your hand? I heard them speaking softly last night of some blame against you. They were wrong. I told them so. I scorned to hear a word! I know and trust you, Mary, so well that could my sight be restored at this instant, I could choose you from a crowd--my sister!”

Her father went on one side of her, while Dot remained on the other, holding her hand.

“Bertha, my dear,” said Caleb, “I have something on my mind I want to tell you while we three are alone. Listen kindly! I have a confession to make to you.”

“A confession, Father?”

“Yes, my child; I have wandered from the truth,” said Caleb, with a pitiable expression in his face. “I have wandered from the truth, intending to be kind to you; and have been cruel.”

She turned toward him, and repeated the word, “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 an unbelieving smile.

“Not meaning to be, my child,” said Caleb, “but I have been, although I never knew it until yesterday. My dear blind daughter, forgive me. The world, dear heart, is not as you imagine it. It is not as I have represented it. The eyes you have trusted in have been false to you.”

She turned her wondering face toward him still, but drew back, and clung closer to her friend.