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|The Cricket on the Hearth||Charles Dickens|
II - Chirp The Second
|Page 4 of 20||
Heaven knows! But I think Caleb's vague bewilderment of manner may have half originated in his having confused himself about himself and everything around him, for the love of his Blind Daughter. How could the little man be otherwise than bewildered, after labouring for so many years to destroy his own identity, and that of all the objects that had any bearing on it!
'There we are,' said Caleb, falling back a pace or two to form the better judgment of his work; 'as near the real thing as sixpenn'orth of halfpence is to sixpence. What a pity that the whole front of the house opens at once! If there was only a staircase in it, now, and regular doors to the rooms to go in at! But that's the worst of my calling, I'm always deluding myself, and swindling myself.'
'You are speaking quite softly. You are not tired, father?'
'Tired!' echoed Caleb, with a great burst of animation, 'what should tire me, Bertha? I was never tired. What does it mean?'
To give the greater force to his words, he checked himself in an involuntary imitation of two half-length stretching and yawning figures on the mantel-shelf, who were represented as in one eternal state of weariness from the waist upwards; and hummed a fragment of a song. It was a Bacchanalian song, something about a Sparkling Bowl. He sang it with an assumption of a Devil-may-care voice, that made his face a thousand times more meagre and more thoughtful than ever.
'What! You're singing, are you?' said Tackleton, putting his head in at the door. 'Go it! I can't sing.'
Nobody would have suspected him of it. He hadn't what is generally termed a singing face, 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:
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