“You see,” said Tackleton, “I—I want to bring the Peerybingles a little more into the company of May Fielding, for I am going to be married to May.”
“Married!” cried the blind girl, starting from him.
“Oh! She’s such a confounded idiot,” muttered Tackleton, “that I was afraid she’d never comprehend. Ah, yes, Bertha! Married! Church, parson, clerk, bells, satin, veils, and all the rest of the tomfoolery. A wedding, you know; a wedding. Don’t you know what a wedding is?”
“I know,” replied the blind girl gently. “I understand.”
“Do you?” muttered Tackleton. “It’s more than I expected.” Then aloud: “Well, on that account I want to join the party, and bring May and her mother. I’ll send in a little something or other before the afternoon—a cold leg of mutton, or some comfortable trifle of that sort. You’ll expect me?”
“Yes,” she answered, turning away.
“I don’t think you will,” muttered Tackleton, looking at her; “for you seem to have forgotten all about it already. Caleb!”
“I may venture to say I’m here, I suppose,” thought Caleb. “Sir?”
“Take care she don’t forget what I’ve been saying to her.”
“She never forgets,” returned Caleb; “it’s one of the few things she ain’t clever in.”