Charles Dickens (11 page)

'She made a show of it,' said Tackleton. 'She made such a show of
it, that to tell you the truth it was the origin of my misgivings.'

And here he asserted the superiority of May Fielding, who certainly
made no sort of show of being fond of HIM.

'She has tried,' said the poor Carrier, with greater emotion than
he had exhibited yet; 'I only now begin to know how hard she has
tried, to be my dutiful and zealous wife. How good she has been;
how much she has done; how brave and strong a heart she has; let
the happiness I have known under this roof bear witness! It will
be some help and comfort to me, when I am here alone.'

'Here alone?' said Tackleton. 'Oh! Then you do mean to take some
notice of this?'

'I mean,' returned the Carrier, 'to do her the greatest kindness,
and make her the best reparation, in my power. I can release her
from the daily pain of an unequal marriage, and the struggle to
conceal it. She shall be as free as I can render her.'

'Make HER reparation!' exclaimed Tackleton, twisting and turning
his great ears with his hands. 'There must be something wrong
here. You didn't say that, of course.'

The Carrier set his grip upon the collar of the Toy-merchant, and
shook him like a reed.

'Listen to me!' he said. 'And take care that you hear me right.
Listen to me. Do I speak plainly?'

'Very plainly indeed,' answered Tackleton.

'As if I meant it?'

'Very much as if you meant it.'

'I sat upon that hearth, last night, all night,' exclaimed the
Carrier. 'On the spot where she has often sat beside me, with her
sweet face looking into mine. I called up her whole life, day by
day. I had her dear self, in its every passage, in review before
me. And upon my soul she is innocent, if there is One to judge the
innocent and guilty!'

Staunch Cricket on the Hearth! Loyal household Fairies!

'Passion and distrust have left me!' said the Carrier; 'and nothing
but my grief remains. In an unhappy moment some old lover, better
suited to her tastes and years than I; forsaken, perhaps, for me,
against her will; returned. In an unhappy moment, taken by
surprise, and wanting time to think of what she did, she made
herself a party to his treachery, by concealing it. Last night she
saw him, in the interview we witnessed. It was wrong. But
otherwise than this she is innocent if there is truth on earth!'

'If that is your opinion'—Tackleton began.

'So, let her go!' pursued the Carrier. 'Go, with my blessing for
the many happy hours she has given me, and my forgiveness for any
pang she has caused me. Let her go, and have the peace of mind I
wish her! She'll never hate me. She'll learn to like me better,
when I'm not a drag upon her, and she wears the chain I have
riveted, more lightly. This is the day on which I took her, with
so little thought for her enjoyment, from her home. To-day she
shall return to it, and I will trouble her no more. Her father and
mother will be here to-day—we had made a little plan for keeping
it together—and they shall take her home. I can trust her, there,
or anywhere. She leaves me without blame, and she will live so I
am sure. If I should die—I may perhaps while she is still young;
I have lost some courage in a few hours—she'll find that I
remembered her, and loved her to the last! This is the end of what
you showed me. Now, it's over!'

'O no, John, not over. Do not say it's over yet! Not quite yet.
I have heard your noble words. I could not steal away, pretending
to be ignorant of what has affected me with such deep gratitude.
Do not say it's over, 'till the clock has struck again!'

She had entered shortly after Tackleton, and had remained there.
She never looked at Tackleton, but fixed her eyes upon her husband.
But she kept away from him, setting as wide a space as possible
between them; and though she spoke with most impassioned
earnestness, she went no nearer to him even then. How different in
this from her old self!

'No hand can make the clock which will strike again for me the
hours that are gone,' replied the Carrier, with a faint smile.
'But let it be so, if you will, my dear. It will strike soon.
It's of little matter what we say. I'd try to please you in a
harder case than that.'

'Well!' muttered Tackleton. 'I must be off, for when the clock
strikes again, it'll be necessary for me to be upon my way to
church. Good morning, John Peerybingle. I'm sorry to be deprived
of the pleasure of your company. Sorry for the loss, and the
occasion of it too!'

'I have spoken plainly?' said the Carrier, accompanying him to the
door.

'Oh quite!'

'And you'll remember what I have said?'

'Why, if you compel me to make the observation,' said Tackleton,
previously taking the precaution of getting into his chaise; 'I
must say that it was so very unexpected, that I'm far from being
likely to forget it.'

'The better for us both,' returned the Carrier. 'Good bye. I give
you joy!'

'I wish I could give it to YOU,' said Tackleton. 'As I can't;
thank'ee. Between ourselves, (as I told you before, eh?) I don't
much think I shall have the less joy in my married life, because
May hasn't been too officious about me, and too demonstrative.
Good bye! Take care of yourself.'

The Carrier stood looking after him until he was smaller in the
distance than his horse's flowers and favours near at hand; and
then, with a deep sigh, went strolling like a restless, broken man,
among some neighbouring elms; unwilling to return until the clock
was on the eve of striking.

His little wife, being left alone, sobbed piteously; but often
dried her eyes and checked herself, to say how good he was, how
excellent he was! and once or twice she laughed; so heartily,
triumphantly, and incoherently (still crying all the time), that
Tilly was quite horrified.

'Ow if you please don't!' said Tilly. 'It's enough to dead and
bury the Baby, so it is if you please.'

'Will you bring him sometimes, to see his father, Tilly,' inquired
her mistress, drying her eyes; 'when I can't live here, and have
gone to my old home?'

'Ow if you please don't!' cried Tilly, throwing back her head, and
bursting out into a howl—she looked at the moment uncommonly like
Boxer. 'Ow if you please don't! Ow, what has everybody gone and
been and done with everybody, making everybody else so wretched!
Ow-w-w-w!'

The soft-hearted Slowboy trailed off at this juncture, into such a
deplorable howl, the more tremendous from its long suppression,
that she must infallibly have awakened the Baby, and frightened him
into something serious (probably convulsions), if her eyes had not
encountered Caleb Plummer, leading in his daughter. This spectacle
restoring her to a sense of the proprieties, she stood for some few
moments silent, with her mouth wide open; and then, posting off to
the bed on which the Baby lay asleep, danced in a weird, Saint
Vitus manner on the floor, and at the same time rummaged with her
face and head among the bedclothes, apparently deriving much relief
from those extraordinary operations.

'Mary!' said Bertha. 'Not at the marriage!'

'I told her you would not be there, mum,' whispered Caleb. 'I
heard as much last night. But bless you,' said the little man,
taking her tenderly by both hands, 'I don't care for what they say.
I don't believe them. There an't much of me, but that little
should be torn to pieces sooner than I'd trust a word against you!'

He put his arms about her and hugged her, as a child might have
hugged one of his own dolls.

'Bertha couldn't stay at home this morning,' said Caleb. 'She was
afraid, I know, to hear the bells ring, and couldn't trust herself
to be so near them on their wedding-day. So we started in good
time, and came here. I have been thinking of what I have done,'
said Caleb, after a moment's pause; 'I have been blaming myself
till I hardly knew what to do or where to turn, for the distress of
mind I have caused her; and I've come to the conclusion that I'd
better, 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 to
foot. 'I don't know what effect it may have upon her; I don't know
what she'll think of me; I don't know that she'll ever care for her
poor father afterwards. But it's best for her that she should be
undeceived, and I must bear the consequences as I deserve!'

' Mary,' said Bertha, 'where is your hand! Ah! Here it is here it
is!' pressing it to her lips, with a smile, and drawing it through
her arm. 'I heard them speaking softly among themselves, last
night, 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 to
hear a word! Blame HER with justice!' she pressed the hand between
her own, and the soft cheek against her face. 'No! I am not so
blind as that.'

Her father went on one side of her, while Dot remained upon the
other: holding her hand.

'I know you all,' said Bertha, 'better than you think. But none so
well as her. Not even you, father. There is nothing half so real
and so true about me, as she is. If I could be restored to sight
this instant, and not a word were spoken, I could choose her from a
crowd! My sister!'

'Bertha, my dear!' said Caleb, 'I have something on my mind I want
to tell you, while we three are alone. Hear me kindly! I have a
confession to make to you, my darling.'

'A confession, father?'

'I have wandered from the truth and lost myself, my child,' said
Caleb, with a pitiable expression in his bewildered face. 'I have
wandered from the truth, intending to be kind to you; and have been
cruel.'

She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him, and repeated
'Cruel!'

'He accuses himself too strongly, Bertha,' said Dot. 'You'll say
so, 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 I
never suspected it, till yesterday. My dear blind daughter, hear
me and forgive me! The world you live in, heart of mine, doesn't
exist as I have represented it. The eyes you have trusted in, have
been false to you.'

She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him still; but drew
back, and clung closer to her friend.

'Your road in life was rough, my poor one,' said Caleb, 'and I
meant to smooth it for you. I have altered objects, changed the
characters of people, invented many things that never have been, to
make you happier. I have had concealments from you, put deceptions
on you, God forgive me! and surrounded you with fancies.'

'But living people are not fancies!' she said hurriedly, and
turning very pale, and still retiring from him. 'You can't change
them.'

'I have done so, Bertha,' pleaded Caleb. 'There is one person that
you know, my dove—'

'Oh father! why do you say, I know?' she answered, in a term of
keen reproach. 'What and whom do
I
know! I who have no leader!
I so miserably blind.'

In the anguish of her heart, she stretched out her hands, as if she
were groping her way; then spread them, in a manner most forlorn
and sad, upon her face.

'The marriage that takes place to-day,' said Caleb, 'is with a
stern, sordid, grinding man. A hard master to you and me, my dear,
for many years. Ugly in his looks, and in his nature. Cold and
callous always. Unlike what I have painted him to you in
everything, my child. In everything.'

'Oh why,' cried the Blind Girl, tortured, as it seemed, almost
beyond endurance, 'why did you ever do this! Why did you ever fill
my heart so full, and then come in like Death, and tear away the
objects of my love! O Heaven, how blind I am! How helpless and
alone!'

Her afflicted father hung his head, and offered no reply but in his
penitence and sorrow.

She had been but a short time in this passion of regret, when the
Cricket on the Hearth, unheard by all but her, began to chirp. Not
merrily, but in a low, faint, sorrowing way. It was so mournful
that her tears began to flow; and when the Presence which had been
beside the Carrier all night, appeared behind her, pointing to her
father, 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 it
truly is.'

'It is a poor place, Bertha; very poor and bare indeed. The house
will scarcely keep out wind and rain another winter. It is as
roughly 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's
little wife aside.

'Those presents that I took such care of; that came almost at my
wish, 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 spread
her hands before her face again. But in quite another manner now.

'Dear Mary, a moment. One moment? More this way. Speak softly to
me. 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 my
father is—my father, so compassionate and loving to me—and tell
me what you see.'

'I see,' said Dot, who understood her well, 'an old man sitting in
a chair, and leaning sorrowfully on the back, with his face resting
on his hand. As if his child should comfort him, Bertha.'