by any means.
'I can't afford to sing,' said Tackleton. 'I'm glad YOU CAN. I
hope you can afford to work too. Hardly time for both, I should
think?'
'If you could only see him, Bertha, how he's winking at me!'
whispered Caleb. 'Such a man to joke! you'd think, if you didn't
know him, he was in earnest—wouldn't you now?'
The Blind Girl smiled and nodded.
'The bird that can sing and won't sing, must be made to sing, they
say,' grumbled Tackleton. 'What about the owl that can't sing, and
oughtn't to sing, and will sing; is there anything that HE should
be made to do?'
'The extent to which he's winking at this moment!' whispered Caleb
to his daughter. 'O, my gracious!'
'Always merry and light-hearted with us!' cried the smiling Bertha.
'O, you're there, are you?' answered Tackleton. 'Poor Idiot!'
He really did believe she was an Idiot; and he founded the belief,
I can't say whether consciously or not, upon her being fond of him.
'Well! and being there,—how are you?' said Tackleton, in his
grudging way.
'Oh! well; quite well. And as happy as even you can wish me to be.
As happy as you would make the whole world, if you could!'
'Poor Idiot!' muttered Tackleton. 'No gleam of reason. Not a
gleam!'
The Blind Girl took his hand and kissed it; held it for a moment in
her own two hands; and laid her cheek against it tenderly, before
releasing it. There was such unspeakable affection and such
fervent gratitude in the act, that Tackleton himself was moved to
say, in a milder growl than usual:
'What's the matter now?'
'I stood it close beside my pillow when I went to sleep last night,
and remembered it in my dreams. And when the day broke, and the
glorious red sun—the RED sun, father?'
'Red in the mornings and the evenings, Bertha,' said poor Caleb,
with a woeful glance at his employer.
'When it rose, and the bright light I almost fear to strike myself
against in walking, came into the room, I turned the little tree
towards it, and blessed Heaven for making things so precious, and
blessed you for sending them to cheer me!'
'Bedlam broke loose!' said Tackleton under his breath. 'We shall
arrive at the strait-waistcoat and mufflers soon. We're getting
on!'
Caleb, with his hands hooked loosely in each other, stared vacantly
before him while his daughter spoke, as if he really were uncertain
(I believe he was) whether Tackleton had done anything to deserve
her thanks, or not. If he could have been a perfectly free agent,
at that moment, required, on pain of death, to kick the Toy-
merchant, or fall at his feet, according to his merits, I believe
it would have been an even chance which course he would have taken.
Yet, Caleb knew that with his own hands he had brought the little
rose-tree home for her, so carefully, and that with his own lips he
had forged the innocent deception which should help to keep her
from suspecting how much, how very much, he every day, denied
himself, that she might be the happier.
'Bertha!' said Tackleton, assuming, for the nonce, a little
cordiality. 'Come here.'
'Oh! I can come straight to you! You needn't guide me!' she
rejoined.
'Shall I tell you a secret, Bertha?'
'If you will!' she answered, eagerly.
How bright the darkened face! How adorned with light, the
listening head!
'This is the day on which little what's-her-name, the spoilt child,
Peerybingle's wife, pays her regular visit to you—makes her
fantastic Pic-Nic here; an't it?' said Tackleton, with a strong
expression of distaste for the whole concern.
'Yes,' replied Bertha. 'This is the day.'
'I thought so,' said Tackleton. 'I should like to join the party.'
'Do you hear that, father!' cried the Blind Girl in an ecstasy.
'Yes, yes, I hear it,' murmured Caleb, with the fixed look of a
sleep-walker; 'but I don't believe it. It's one of my lies, I've
no doubt.'
'You see I—I want to bring the Peerybingles a little more into
company with May Fielding,' said Tackleton. 'I am going to be
married to May.'
'Married!' cried the
Learning to Kill: Stories