Part 19

“Your road in life was rough, my poor one,” said Caleb, “and I meant to smooth it for you. I have pictured things to you as different from what they are. I have even changed the characters of some people, to make you happier. I have surrounded you with fancies.”

“But living people are not fancies,” she said, turning very pale. “You can’t change them.”

“I have done so, Bertha,” Caleb told her. “There is one person you know----”

“Oh, Father, why do you say I know?” she said. “I who am so miserably blind.”

She stretched out her hands as if to feel her way.

“The marriage that takes place to-day,” Caleb continued, “is with a stern, sordid, grinding man. He has been 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, “why did you ever do this? Teach me to love a person who really never existed? It is like death!”

Her poor father hung his head and offered no reply in his penitence and sorrow. Suddenly the cricket on the hearth, unheard by all but her, began to chirp, not merrily, but so mournfully that her tears began to flow; and when the fairy spirit which had been near the carrier all night, appeared behind her, pointing toward her father, she turned to Dot.

“Mary,” she said, “tell me what my home is like--what it is truly.”

“It is a poor place, Bertha; very poor and bare indeed. The house will scarcely keep out the wind and rain another winter. It is as roughly shielded from the weather, Bertha,” Dot continued in a low voice, “as your poor father in his sackcloth coat.”

The blind girl, greatly agitated, rose and led the carrier’s wife a little aside.

“Those presents that I treasured so much; that came almost at my wish,” 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 a different manner now.

“Dear Mary, a moment, please. Speak softly. Tell me truly. Look across the room to where we were sitting just now--to where my father is--my father, so kind 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 over sorrowfully with his head resting in his hands. He looks 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 sad, thoughtful, gray-haired man, who seems to have lost the object he most loved in the world--his child for whom he lived.”

The blind girl broke away from her, and dropping on her knees before him, threw her arms around his neck.

“Oh, my Father! My dear, dear Father!” she cried. “I have been so blind! But now my eyes are open. I never knew you. To think, I might have died and never truly known the father who has been so loving to me!”

Caleb managed to say, “My Bertha!”

“And in my blindness, I believed him to be so different,” said the girl, still caressing him, “so young and gay!”

“The fresh, smart father in the blue coat--” said poor Caleb, “he’s gone!”

“Nothing is gone,” she answered. “Dearest Father, no! Everything is here--in you. But, Father----” She hesitated.

“Mary--Mary is just what you told me? There is no change in her? You never told me anything of her that was not true?”

“I should have done so, I’m afraid,” said 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.”

The blind girl was delighted with this reply, even though she had felt so sure of what it must be, and her renewed embrace of Dot was charming to behold.

_The Dead Returns to Life_

Dot glanced at the clock, and saw that it was within a few minutes of striking, and immediately became very excited.

“More changes than you think for may happen, though,” 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 when they come. But listen! You’ve a quick ear, Bertha. Do you hear wheels upon the road?”

“Yes--coming very fast.”

“I--I--I know you have a quick ear,” said Dot, holding her hand to her heart and talking as fast as she could, “because I have often noticed it, and because you were so quick to hear that strange step last night. Though why you should have taken such quick notice of it, and said, ‘Whose step is that?’ seems strange. But, as I said just now, there are great changes in this world; great changes, and we can’t do better than prepare ourselves to be surprised at hardly anything.”

Caleb wondered what she meant, for he saw that she was speaking to him as much as to his daughter. He saw with astonishment, that she was fluttered and distressed, and could scarcely breathe, as she held 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 cry of delight; and running up to Caleb, put her hands over his eyes, as a young man rushed into the room, and flinging his hat into the air, came sweeping down upon them.

“Is it over?” cried Dot.

“Yes!”

“Happily over?”

“Yes!”

“Do you know the voice, dear Caleb? Did you ever hear one like it before?” cried Dot.

“If my boy who went to South America had not died--if he were alive--” said Caleb, trembling.

“He is alive!” shrieked Dot, taking her hands from his eyes, and clapping them in ecstasy. “Look at him! See, here he stands before you, healthy and strong! Your own dear son. Your own dear living brother, Bertha!”

She turned to meet the sunburned sailor half way, and let him kiss her heartily.

Just at this moment, the carrier entered. Upon seeing them thus, he started back.

“Look, John!” cried Caleb. “Look here! My own son! Him that you fitted out, and sent away yourself! Him you were always such a friend to!”

The carrier advanced to seize him by the hand, but stepped back as he noticed his resemblance to the deaf man in the cart.

“Edward! Was it you?”

“Now tell him all!” cried Dot. “Tell him all, Edward, and don’t spare me.”

“I was the man,” said Edward.

“And you stole, disguised, into the home of your old friend!” the carrier said. “I would never have believed it of you! There was a true and frank boy once--how many years is it, Caleb, since we heard that he was dead, and had it proved, we thought? He would never have done that!”

“There was a generous friend of mine, once, a friend, who was more a father than a friend; he never would have judged a man before he heard his case. You were he. So I am certain you will hear me now.”

The carrier, with a troubled glance at Dot, replied, “Well, that’s but fair. I will.”

“You must know, then, that when I left here, a boy, I was in love, and my love was returned, but the girl was very young, and couldn’t quite make up her mind. Still I felt quite certain that she loved me as dearly as I loved her.”

“You did!” exclaimed the carrier.

“Yes; and now I am sure she did. So all through the hardships and perils of my years away, I was constantly thinking of when I should come back to her. When I landed, twenty miles from here, I heard she had bestowed herself upon another and a richer man. I did not wish to find fault with her if she had preferred him. What I wanted to find out was whether she had done this of her own free will. I wanted to judge for myself just how she felt, so I disguised myself--you know how; and waited on the road--you know where. You had no suspicion of me; neither had she,” pointing to Dot, “until I whispered in her ear at the fireside, and so startled her that she nearly betrayed me.”

“Oh, Dot!” exclaimed the carrier.

“But when she knew that Edward was alive, and had come back,” sobbed Dot, now speaking for herself, as she had long wished to do, “and when he told her why he had disguised himself, she advised him to keep his secret close, by all means; for she knew that his old friend, John Peerybingle, was too open in his nature to keep such a secret, no matter how he tried. Then she--that’s me, John--told him all, how his sweetheart had thought him dead; and how she had, after all the years, been over-persuaded by her mother, because the silly, dear, old thing called the marriage advantageous; and when she--that’s me, John--told him they were not yet married (but soon would be) 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 wild with joy to hear it; when she--that’s me again, John--said she would help him, and carry messages to his sweetheart, as she had so often done as a girl; and she would find out what his sweetheart thought was right----”

“Oh!” said John.

“And it was right, John,” Dot continued, catching her breath, “for 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!”

As she drew May forward and lavished all kinds of good wishes and congratulations upon her, the carrier stood confounded. As he flew towards her, Dot stretched out her hand to stop him.

“John, dear John, forgive me! It was wrong to have a secret from you. I’m very sorry. I didn’t think it any harm until the night when I came and sat down by you on the little stool. But when I looked at your face, I knew you must have seen me walking in the wareroom with Edward, and were suspicious of me. But oh, John, how could--how could you think wrong of me?”

John Peerybingle would have caught her in his arms; but no, she wouldn’t let him.

“Wait a minute, please, John dear, until you let me hear you tell me that you believe me, and trust me, and that you know how much I love you--so much that I’ll never have another secret from you; and that you’ll never, never think of sending me from my home, and yours, John, and our cricket on the hearth.”

Then you would have been delighted to see Dot run into the carrier’s arms. You may be sure the carrier was in a state of perfect rapture; and you may be sure that everybody, especially Miss Slowboy, wept for joy, and she, wishing to include the baby, handed him around to everyone in succession as if he were something to eat or drink.

But now the sound of wheels was heard again outside the door, and somebody exclaimed that Gruff and Tackleton was coming back in. Soon he appeared, looking warm and flustered.

“My, what in nation’s this, John Peerybingle!” said Tackleton. “There’s some mistake. I had an appointment with Miss Fielding to meet me at the church, and--oh, here she is!” seeing her with Edward, to whom he then turned, saying:

“I beg your pardon, sir; I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you; but if you can do me the favor to spare this young lady--she has a rather particular engagement with me this morning.”

“But I can’t spare her,” said Edward. “I couldn’t think of it.”

“What do you mean, you vagabond?” exclaimed Tackleton.

“I mean--and I pardon you for being vexed--I mean that I am as deaf to your harsh words as I was last night.”

Such a startled look as Tackleton gave him!

“It is too bad, sir,” said Edward, holding out May’s left hand, especially the third finger, “that the young lady can’t accompany you to the 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 ring out of his waistcoat pocket.

“Miss Slowboy,” said Tackleton, “will you have the kindness to throw that into the fire? Thank you.”

“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 say that I told him about this old engagement many times, and that 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. You are now Mrs. Edward Plummer, I infer?”

“That’s the name,” said the bridegroom.

“Ah, I shouldn’t have known you,” said Tackleton. “I give you joy, sir.”

With these words, he hurried away, merely stopping at the gate to take the flowers and favors off the horse’s head, and to kick the horse once, just to relieve his feelings.

Of course, the next thing in order was the wedding feast; and Dot set to work with all her might, even calling in some neighborly help, and everybody, as if on the point of life or death, ran against each other in all the doorways, and round all the corners, tumbling over Tilly Slowboy and the baby everywhere.

Then there was an expedition to find Mrs. Fielding, and to apologize to her, and to bring her back, happy and forgiving. At first, she would not listen at all, and wouldn’t say anything but, “Now carry me to my grave,” which seemed absurd, on account of her not being dead, or even ill.

After a while she settled down into a dreadful calm, and advantage was taken of this to get her into her coat and gloves, and carry her off to John Peerybingle’s.

When they reached the house, there were Dot’s father and mother; and May’s mother and Dot’s mother began to renew their acquaintance.

After a grand confusion of talk and action, they actually were seated at the table. To have missed that dinner would have been to have missed as good and as jolly a meal as man need eat.

After dinner, Caleb sang his song about the sparkling bowl; and, you may not believe it, but he sang it through.

And, by-the-bye, a most unexpected thing occurred just as he finished the last verse.

_Tackleton Does the Unexpected_

There was a tap at the door, and a man came staggering in with a big round box, which he set on the table in the center of the nuts and apples. He said:

“Mr. Tackleton’s compliments, and as he hasn’t got no use for the cake himself, perhaps you’ll eat it.”

And with these words, he walked off.

There was some surprise among the company, as you may imagine. Mrs. Fielding suggested that the cake might be poisoned, and told about a cake which she had heard of that had turned a seminary of young ladies blue. But, notwithstanding the story, 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 appeared again, having under his arm a big brown paper parcel.

“Mr. Tackleton’s compliments, and he’s sent a few toys for the baby. They ain’t ugly.”

The whole party would not have been able to find words to express their astonishment even if they had had plenty of time. But they had none, for the messenger had scarcely shut the door when there came another tap, and Tackleton himself walked in.

“Mrs. Peerybingle!” said the toy merchant, hat in hand, “I’m sorry. I’m sour by disposition, but I am going to try to do better. Caleb, I might have had you and your daughter for dear friends. As it is, my house is lonely to-night. I have not even a cricket on the hearth. I have scared them all away. Be kind to me, please; 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 how much fun he had in him! Or what had the fairies been doing with him to change him so!

There was but one more living creature wanted to make the party complete, and in the twinkling of an eye, there he was, very thirsty--with hard running, for Boxer had gone all the way with the cart on its journey, and being disgusted at finding his master absent, and unable to induce the horse to come with him, had turned tail and trotted home.

There was a dance in the evening; but since the old people didn’t dance, and Dot said her dancing days were over because, I believe, she preferred to sit near the carrier really, Edward and May were the only dancers, and they got up amid great applause, to dance alone, while Bertha played her liveliest tune.

Well, if you’ll believe me, they had not been dancing five minutes, when the carrier suddenly jumps up, 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, and follows suit. Then Dot’s father and mother, and Caleb and Tilly Slowboy join in.

* * * * *

Hark! how the cricket joins the music with its chirp! chirp! chirp! and how the kettle hums!

THE RETURN HOME

GOOD-BY, MARY FRANCES. COME AGAIN!

THE RETURN HOME

XXXVII

GOOD-BY, MARY FRANCES. COME AGAIN!

IN the middle of the story, “The Cricket on the Hearth,” when everybody was so anxious to hear more, there came the sound of many voices, and then a loud scream. Mary Frances knew it was the voice of the old witch, who had been listening.

“Let me be!” she was crying. “I don’t want to go away! I want to find out who the old man was! I want to find out who the old man was! I want to see if Tackleton did marry May Fielding! I won’t go! S-so there! Did I tramp all the miles to get here just to be taken back again?”

Then came the deep, heavy voice of the giant: “Be quiet!” it said. “Be quiet! No, you won’t have to go back. We’ll take you. This time we’ll lock you up so tight you’ll stay where you’re put, and you’ll come when you’re bid. That’s what you’ll do!”

“S-somebody tell me quick!” screamed the old witch. “Quick! Did May Fielding marry Tackleton? Did she? Did she?” and Mary Frances heard her screaming, “Did she? Did she?” until her voice died away.

How Mary Frances longed to tell her no, but she did not dare!

“She deserves her punishment,” the Queen whispered, and since she knew that that was true, Mary Frances did not speak.

After the story was over, she received her copy from the Ready Writer and slipped it into her story satchel with the rest of the stories. Then she wandered down by the seashore alone. Near the shore there was a boy with a feather in his cap sitting on a rock. She knew him in a minute.

“Where did the giant take the old witch, do you think, Peter Pan?” she asked.

“To the Devil’s Den,” said Peter. “I saw them go.”

“To the Devil’s Den!” cried Mary Frances. “How dreadful!”

“It’s not such a bad place,” said Peter. “It is just a deep cave. It is lighted from a large opening in the top. Its name is the worst thing about it; but the old witch cannot get out of it if they lock her in.”

“Oh, she got away from the giant’s basket, then?”

“She did. She was so crazy to hear a story through that she watched her first chance to make off when the giant guard was asleep.”

“What about the pirate?” asked Mary Frances.

“He is chained to a rock in the Pirate’s Cove, and he spends his time jumping in and out of the water. He has jumped so much and so hard that the suds are rising all around him just as when you blow bubbles in a bowl, holding the pipe down in the water. Poor thing! Some day the suds will rise so high that the bubbles will cover him and smother him.”

“Is there no way for him to save himself?” asked Mary Frances.

“Certainly!” said Peter Pan. “All he has to do is to be good; but he won’t be! He’s just naturally wicked. He’d murder fairies if he could, and he’d steal all the stories in the world, and he’d feed children on charcoal and castor oil--he told me so once. It was after I caught him trying to steal my shadow.”

“He must have a wicked heart!” said Mary Frances.

“Once I asked him why he was so bad,” Peter told her “and what do you think he said?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” she returned.

“He said it was because his mother never kissed him.”

“His mother never kissed him!” exclaimed Mary Frances. “Why, what a queer kind of mother! Now my mother----”

Suddenly she felt very homesick. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Why, Peter!” she cried wistfully. “Why, Peter! It must be over a year since my mother kissed me! Shall I turn wicked, too? Oh, I wish I could see her--my own dear mother!”

As she finished speaking, a beautiful little sail-boat appeared before them. It was smaller than The Good Ferry.

“Step aboard, then,” said Peter Pan, rising and leading her toward the boat. “This is a fairy boat. You will be home in an hour. Sit in the stern. Take the tiller in your hand. Hold it steady, and wish out loud where you want to go.”

He helped Mary Frances into the boat.

“Oh, but I haven’t thanked the Story People for my wonderful, wonderful time!” she exclaimed. “I wish I could thank them!”

Even as she spoke, every door and window of the castle opened and the Story People appeared.

“Thank you all! Thank you forever--and--ever! Thank you for all the girls and boys in the world!” cried Mary Frances.

“Have you your stories?” called the Story King.

“Yes, I have them here!” said Mary Frances, holding up her story satchel.

“When you want more, come again, dear child,” called the Story Queen.

“Oh, yes, come again!” called all the Story People. “For we love you! The Story People love all children. Take our love to all you can, and good-by! Good-by! Good-by!”

“Good-by, dear, dear friends!” called Mary Frances, as the little boat sailed away. “Good-by, and thank you!”

She watched until the island was too far away for her to make out the forms of the people at the castle windows. Then she wished aloud, “Home! Take me to my mother and father and my brother, little fairy sail-boat!”

And the wind blew and filled the sails and the sun warmed and cheered her, and the waves danced about the boat, making little lapping sounds which were like music--and the next thing she knew she was running up the garden walk into her mother’s open arms.

“The stories are not yours, dear; they belong to all children,” said her mother, when Mary Frances emptied her story satchel, and told of her wonderful adventures among the Story People. “Let us make enough copies for them all.”

And so they wrote this book.

Transcriber’s Note:

Punctuation has been standardized. Variations in hyphenation have been retained as published. Changes have been made as follows:

Page 33 “Oh, yes,” exlaimed Mary Frances “Oh, yes,” exclaimed Mary Frances

Page 130 balancing himself periously over balancing himself perilously over

Page 195 the court was exceeding glad the court was exceedingly glad

Page 304 though a window through a window

Page 305 love to be like May, father, and love to be like May, Father, and

Page 316 You musn’t let them startle You mustn’t let them startle

End of Project Gutenberg's The Mary Frances Story Book, by Jane Eayre Fryer