What Happened to the Carpenter.
A thick carpet had lately been put down in the dining-room at the squire’s residence, which was found to prevent the door from opening and shutting easily, so Wedge, the village carpenter, was sent for to ease it. At six o’clock, while he was still at work, carriage wheels were distinctly heard, and the squire’s lady, with her children, came down into the hall, ready to welcome home Mr. Cary, who had been that day to town. Wedge, who was working inside the dining-room, listened with astonishment when he heard the shout the children gave when their father stepped out of the carriage. He saw, also, through the door crack, that the two eldest had caught hold of his hands, whilst the younger ones were clinging like little barnacles to his coat-tails; all dragging him along, as if, once having got him into their net, they meant, spider-like, to bind him hand and foot, and devour him, as that interesting insect would a great blue-bottle, at their leisure. That the squire’s return should cause such delight was a puzzler for our worthy friend; for had he not, with his own eyes, seen this man go off at half past nine in the morning, and no one could have persuaded him otherwise than that he must have been away a month, to put it at the lowest figure. He saw, moreover, that the squire was holding tightly in his hand a little parcel, which, shaking off the children by a number of little dodges of which loving fathers only know the secret, he quickly untied, for all the world as though he were a boy five or six years old (and not a great man of fourteen stone weight), who could not wait a moment for anything. In a shorter time than we take to write it, he pulled out the contents and gave them to his wife, with three distinct kisses. Wedge could swear there were three, for he counted them, and wondered how many more there were to come! Soon the merry party went up stairs—the echo of their voices died away, and Wedge was left to finish his job on the door, whilst his heart and conscience began their work on him. He, too, had a home and children; he too, had been away; but the thought struck him uncomfortably that his welcome home, that is, if he got one at all, would seem poor and cold after that which he had just witnessed. This reflection was not so sweet as to make his work go smoothly; his saw seemed as blunt as a double-bladed, six-penny penknife, and the wood of the chair, whose legs he was cutting down, as hard as bog oak. In fact, he was feeling jealous of the squire, and discontented with his own wife and children. Why were they not eager to rush out and welcome him, after the fashion of the squire’s family? He frowned as he thought how badly he was used, and his saw grated away as though very dull. But conscience had a word to say to him, and said it loud enough, too, for him to hear, although he was making noise enough to prevent any one from trying to gain his attention. It told him the fault was chiefly in himself, for if his wife and children were not like the squire’s, neither was his likeness to that worthy gentleman particularly striking. He couldn’t blame his wife for not making enough of his presents, for he well knew he never gave her any; nor did he greet her with those kind words which would not have failed to draw the same from her. Wedge was a good husband without being a kind one, spending his money for the most part on his family in a hard, business-like kind of way, but showing no affection for his children, who consequently did not love him. As Wedge walked home, his tools on his back, he came across an old friend, carrying carefully a dainty bunch of snow-drops in his big round hand. “Here, Will,” he said, walking along by the carpenter’s side, “I’ve just given a trifle for these flowers—pretty bits of things, ain’t they?—for my wife makes so much of any little present I take her home; she never minds what I bring her, so long as I bring it to her myself, for to be sure I always tack on a little something in the shape of a few kind words, which makes the thing seem valuable in her eyes. I don’t know how I should get on sometimes, if it weren’t for having flowers pretty handy. You can get them for a little or nothing at any time, and yet they are more beautiful than anything we could make.” Wedge’s road now lay in a different direction from his friend’s, so they parted company, Joe Sparks putting a couple of snow-drops into Will’s hand, supposing he would know well enough what to do with them. Wedge turned the snow-drops over in his hand, and looked after Joe, who had nearly turned the corner. What could the man mean by giving him the snow-drops and never saying a word? He couldn’t have known what had just happened at the hall; yet it seemed strange that he should come up and say all this about presents just when Wedge was thinking about that very subject, and enjoying the excuse too, “that he couldn’t afford to buy his wife anything.” But now having the snow-drops, and having heard so much about them, it seemed as if nothing else would do but that he must give them to his wife, and this proceeding would be such a new and extraordinary one that the very thought made him feel sheepish. Wedge’s wife was a nice woman; but family cares were weighing her down, so that the light was fast dying out of her eyes, and the color fast fading from her cheeks. She would not have minded them half, nor even quarter as much, if, when Wedge came home, she could have told him all about them, for ten to one he could have set things right. But he always pooh-poohed when she ventured to begin the subject, so that she left off looking for help where there was none to be had. It seemed to Wedge that if he paid down in hard cash for clothing, feeding, and schooling the family, he had done his share toward their bringing up. Such being the state of things, you may well imagine how surprised was Mrs. Wedge when she heard a cheerful voice call out, “Where are you, Mary?” But greater was still her astonishment, when, on going to the door, her husband presented her with the snow-drops, declaring as he put them in her hands, that, “beautiful as they were, he thought the rosebud on her arm beat them out and out.” Wedge had done many a handy bit of work with the tools on his back, but he did a neater job with those two snow-drops than he had ever done with all of them put together, for he, so to speak, sawed Mary’s heart right in two, and got to the very inside, and planed down no end of knots and rough places, and French-polished her off, as if she had been some choice piece of cabinet to be sold for nobody knows what. That day was the beginning of brighter35times. Mary’s heart having been, as we before said, sawed right open, never closed up again, by reason of her husband’s continually putting in one little thing and another, on purpose to keep it open; and warm streams of affection came gushing out that nobody knew were ever there at all, they were hidden down so deep. And as to Wedge, he never knew before how many pretty speeches he could make. Without any notice beforehand whatever, they seemed to come from somewhere inside, already made, packed up and directed, ready to be delivered ‘with care, this side up,’ to his wife, while the contents of these said parcels, or sentences, generally brought a smile on Mrs. Wedge’s face, and made her as lively as a cricket for some time to come.—British Workman.