'Bertha couldn't stay at home this morning,' said Caleb.'She wasafraid, I know, to hear the bells ring, and couldn't trust herselfto be so near them on their wedding-day.So we started in goodtime, and came here.I have been thinking of what I have done,'
said Caleb, after a moment's pause; 'I have been blaming myselftill I hardly knew what to do or where to turn, for the distress ofmind I have caused her; and I've come to the conclusion that I'dbetter, 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 tofoot.'I don't know what effect it may have upon her; I don't knowwhat she'll think of me; I don't know that she'll ever care for herpoor father afterwards.But it's best for her that she should beundeceived, and I must bear the consequences as I deserve!'
' Mary,' said Bertha, 'where is your hand! Ah! Here it is here itis!' pressing it to her lips, with a smile, and drawing it throughher arm.'I heard them speaking softly among themselves, lastnight, 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 tohear a word! Blame HER with justice!' she pressed the hand betweenher own, and the soft cheek against her face.'No! I am not soblind as that.'
Her father went on one side of her, while Dot remained upon theother: holding her hand.
'I know you all,' said Bertha, 'better than you think.But none sowell as her.Not even you, father.There is nothing half so realand so true about me, as she is.If I could be restored to sightthis instant, and not a word were spoken, I could choose her from acrowd! My sister!'
'Bertha, my dear!' said Caleb, 'I have something on my mind I wantto tell you, while we three are alone.Hear me kindly! I have aconfession to make to you, my darling.'
'A confession, father?'
'I have wandered from the truth and lost myself, my child,' saidCaleb, with a pitiable expression in his bewildered face.'I havewandered from the truth, intending to be kind to you; and have beencruel.'
She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him, and repeated'Cruel!'
'He accuses himself too strongly, Bertha,' said Dot.'You'll sayso, 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 Inever suspected it, till yesterday.My dear blind daughter, hearme and forgive me! The world you live in, heart of mine, doesn'texist as I have represented it.The eyes you have trusted in, havebeen false to you.'
She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him still; but drewback, and clung closer to her friend.
'Your road in life was rough, my poor one,' said Caleb, 'and Imeant to smooth it for you.I have altered objects, changed thecharacters of people, invented many things that never have been, tomake you happier.I have had concealments from you, put deceptionson you, God forgive me! and surrounded you with fancies.'
'But living people are not fancies!' she said hurriedly, andturning very pale, and still retiring from him.'You can't changethem.'
'I have done so, Bertha,' pleaded Caleb.'There is one person thatyou know, my dove - '
'Oh father! why do you say, I know?' she answered, in a term ofkeen reproach.'What and whom do I know! I who have no leader! Iso miserably blind.'
In the anguish of her heart, she stretched out her hands, as if shewere groping her way; then spread them, in a manner most forlornand sad, upon her face.
'The marriage that takes place to-day,' said Caleb, 'is with astern, sordid, grinding man.A hard master to you and me, my dear,for many years.Ugly in his looks, and in his nature.Cold andcallous always.Unlike what I have painted him to you ineverything, my child.In everything.'
'Oh why,' cried the Blind Girl, tortured, as it seemed, almostbeyond endurance, 'why did you ever do this! Why did you ever fillmy heart so full, and then come in like Death, and tear away theobjects of my love! O Heaven, how blind I am! How helpless andalone!'
Her afflicted father hung his head, and offered no reply but in hispenitence and sorrow.
She had been but a short time in this passion of regret, when theCricket on the Hearth, unheard by all but her, began to chirp.Notmerrily, but in a low, faint, sorrowing way.It was so mournfulthat her tears began to flow; and when the Presence which had beenbeside the Carrier all night, appeared behind her, pointing to herfather, 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 ittruly is.'
'It is a poor place, Bertha; very poor and bare indeed.The housewill scarcely keep out wind and rain another winter.It is asroughly 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'slittle wife aside.
'Those presents that I took such care of; that came almost at mywish, 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 spreadher hands before her face again.But in quite another manner now.
'Dear Mary, a moment.One moment? More this way.Speak softly tome.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 myfather is - my father, so compassionate and loving to me - and tellme what you see.'
'I see,' said Dot, who understood her well, 'an old man sitting ina chair, and leaning sorrowfully on the back, with his face restingon his hand.As if his child should comfort him, Bertha.'
'Yes, yes.She will.Go on.'