LITMIR.BIZ

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to it, and there is no use in putting it off—when the time drew nigh for expecting the Carrier’s return in every sound of distant wheels, her manner changed again, her colour came and went, and she was very restless. Not as good wives are, when listening for their husbands. No, no, no. It was another sort of restlessness from that.

      Wheels heard. A horse’s feet. The barking of a dog. The gradual approach of all the sounds. The scratching paw of Boxer at the door!

      ‘Whose step is that!’ cried Bertha, starting up.

      ‘Whose step?’ returned the Carrier, standing in the portal, with his brown face ruddy as a winter berry from the keen night air. ‘Why, mine.’

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

      ‘She is not to be deceived,’ observed the Carrier, laughing. ‘Come along, sir. You’ll be welcome, never fear!’

      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 honour.’

      ‘He’s the best company on earth, to talk secrets in,’ said John. ‘I have reasonable good lungs, but he tries ’em, I can tell you. Sit down, sir. All friends here, and glad to see you!’

      When he had imparted this assurance, in a voice that amply corroborated what he had said about his lungs, he added in his natural tone, ‘A chair in the chimney-corner, and leave to sit quite 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, when he had set the chair, and asked him, in a low voice, to describe their visitor. When he had done so (truly now; with scrupulous fidelity), she moved, for the first time since he had come in, and sighed, and seemed to have no further interest concerning him.

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

      ‘A clumsy Dot she was, this afternoon!’ he said, encircling her with his rough arm, as she stood, removed from the rest; ‘and yet I like her somehow. See yonder, Dot!’

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

      ‘He’s—ha ha ha!—he’s full of admiration for you!’ said the Carrier. ‘Talked of nothing else, the whole way here. Why, he’s a brave old boy. I like him for it!’

      ‘I wish he had 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 the thick shawl, off with the heavy wrappers! and a cosy half-hour by the fire! My humble service, Mistress. A game at cribbage, you and I? That’s hearty. The cards and board, Dot. And a glass of beer here, if there’s any left, small wife!’

      His challenge was addressed to the old lady, who accepting it with gracious readiness, they were soon engaged upon the game. At first, the Carrier looked about him sometimes, with a smile, or now and then called Dot to peep over his shoulder at his hand, and advise him on some knotty point. But his adversary being a rigid disciplinarian, and subject to an occasional weakness in respect of pegging more than she was entitled to, required such vigilance on his part, as left him neither eyes nor ears to spare. Thus, his whole attention gradually became absorbed upon the cards; and he thought of nothing else, until a hand upon his shoulder restored him to a consciousness of Tackleton.

      ‘I am sorry to disturb you—but a word, directly.’

      ‘I’m going to deal,’ returned the Carrier. ‘It’s a crisis.’

      ‘It is,’ said Tackleton. ‘Come here, man!’

      There was that in his pale face which made the other 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, with a frightened aspect.

      ‘Hush! I’ll show you, if you’ll come with me.’

      The Carrier accompanied him, without another word. They went across a yard, where the stars were shining, and by a little side-door, into Tackleton’s own counting-house, where there was a glass window, commanding the ware-room, which was closed for the night. There was no light in the counting-house itself, but there were lamps in the long narrow ware-room; and consequently the window was bright.

      ‘A moment!’ said Tackleton. ‘Can you bear to look through that window, do you think?’

      ‘Why not?’ returned the Carrier.

      ‘A moment more,’ said Tackleton. ‘Don’t commit any violence. It’s of no use. It’s dangerous too. You’re a strong-made man; and you might do murder before you know it.’

      The Carrier looked him in the face, and recoiled a step as if he had been struck. In one stride he was at the window, and he saw—

      Oh Shadow on the Hearth! Oh truthful Cricket! Oh perfidious Wife!

      He saw her, with the old man—old no longer, but erect and gallant—bearing in his hand the false white hair that had won his way into their desolate and miserable home. He saw her listening to him, as he bent his head to whisper in her ear; and suffering him to clasp her round the waist, as they moved slowly down the dim wooden gallery towards the door by which they had entered it. He saw them stop, and saw her turn—to have the face, the face he loved so, so presented to his view!—and saw her, with her own hands, adjust the lie upon his head, laughing, as she did it, at his unsuspicious nature!

      He clenched his strong right hand at first, as if it would have beaten down a lion. But opening it immediately again, he spread it out before the eyes of Tackleton (for he was tender of her, even then), and so, as they passed out, fell down upon a desk, and was as weak as any infant.

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

      ‘Now, John, dear! Good night, May! Good night, Bertha!’

      Could she kiss them? Could she be blithe and cheerful in her parting? Could she venture to reveal her face to them without a blush? Yes. Tackleton observed her closely, and she did all this.

      Tilly was hushing the Baby, and she crossed and re-crossed Tackleton, a dozen times, repeating drowsily:

      ‘Did the knowledge that it was to be its wifes, then, wring its hearts almost to breaking; and did its fathers deceive it from its cradles but to break its hearts at last!’

      ‘Now, Tilly, give me the Baby! 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 to her seat.

      ‘My dear John. Walk? To-night?’

      The muffled figure of her husband made a hasty sign in the affirmative; and the false stranger and the little nurse being in their places, the old horse moved off. Boxer, the unconscious Boxer, running on before, running back, running round and round the cart, and barking as triumphantly and merrily as ever.

      When Tackleton had gone off likewise, escorting May and her mother home, poor Caleb sat down by the fire beside his daughter; anxious and remorseful at the core; and still saying in his wistful contemplation of her, ‘Have I deceived her from her cradle, but to break her heart at last!’

      The toys that had been set in motion for the Baby, had all stopped,

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