Charles Dickens (10 page)

His thoughts were constant to her image. It was always there.

She sat plying her needle, before the fire, and singing to herself.
Such a blithe, thriving, steady little Dot! The fairy figures
turned upon him all at once, by one consent, with one prodigious
concentrated stare, and seemed to say, 'Is this the light wife you
are mourning for!'

There were sounds of gaiety outside, musical instruments, and noisy
tongues, and laughter. A crowd of young merry-makers came pouring
in, among whom were May Fielding and a score of pretty girls. Dot
was the fairest of them all; as young as any of them too. They
came to summon her to join their party. It was a dance. If ever
little foot were made for dancing, hers was, surely. But she
laughed, and shook her head, and pointed to her cookery on the
fire, and her table ready spread: with an exulting defiance that
rendered her more charming than she was before. And so she merrily
dismissed them, nodding to her would-be partners, one by one, as
they passed, but with a comical indifference, enough to make them
go and drown themselves immediately if they were her admirers—and
they must have been so, more or less; they couldn't help it. And
yet indifference was not her character. O no! For presently,
there came a certain Carrier to the door; and bless her what a
welcome she bestowed upon him!

Again the staring figures turned upon him all at once, and seemed
to say, 'Is this the wife who has forsaken you!'

A shadow fell upon the mirror or the picture: call it what you
will. A great shadow of the Stranger, as he first stood underneath
their roof; covering its surface, and blotting out all other
objects. But the nimble Fairies worked like bees to clear it off
again. And Dot again was there. Still bright and beautiful.

Rocking her little Baby in its cradle, singing to it softly, and
resting her head upon a shoulder which had its counterpart in the
musing figure by which the Fairy Cricket stood.

The night—I mean the real night: not going by Fairy clocks—was
wearing now; and in this stage of the Carrier's thoughts, the moon
burst out, and shone brightly in the sky. Perhaps some calm and
quiet light had risen also, in his mind; and he could think more
soberly of what had happened.

Although the shadow of the Stranger fell at intervals upon the
glass—always distinct, and big, and thoroughly defined—it never
fell so darkly as at first. Whenever it appeared, the Fairies
uttered a general cry of consternation, and plied their little arms
and legs, with inconceivable activity, to rub it out. And whenever
they got at Dot again, and showed her to him once more, bright and
beautiful, they cheered in the most inspiring manner.

They never showed her, otherwise than beautiful and bright, for
they were Household Spirits to whom falsehood is annihilation; and
being so, what Dot was there for them, but the one active, beaming,
pleasant little creature who had been the light and sun of the
Carrier's Home!

The Fairies were prodigiously excited when they showed her, with
the Baby, gossiping among a knot of sage old matrons, and affecting
to be wondrous old and matronly herself, and leaning in a staid,
demure old way upon her husband's arm, attempting—she! such a bud
of a little woman—to convey the idea of having abjured the
vanities of the world in general, and of being the sort of person
to whom it was no novelty at all to be a mother; yet in the same
breath, they showed her, laughing at the Carrier for being awkward,
and pulling up his shirt-collar to make him smart, and mincing
merrily about that very room to teach him how to dance!

They turned, and stared immensely at him when they showed her with
the Blind Girl; for, though she carried cheerfulness and animation
with her wheresoever she went, she bore those influences into Caleb
Plummer's home, heaped up and running over. The Blind Girl's love
for her, and trust in her, and gratitude to her; her own good busy
way of setting Bertha's thanks aside; her dexterous little arts for
filling up each moment of the visit in doing something useful to
the house, and really working hard while feigning to make holiday;
her bountiful provision of those standing delicacies, the Veal and
Ham-Pie and the bottles of Beer; her radiant little face arriving
at the door, and taking leave; the wonderful expression in her
whole self, from her neat foot to the crown of her head, of being a
part of the establishment—a something necessary to it, which it
couldn't be without; all this the Fairies revelled in, and loved
her for. And once again they looked upon him all at once,
appealingly, and seemed to say, while some among them nestled in
her dress and fondled her, 'Is this the wife who has betrayed your
confidence!'

More than once, or twice, or thrice, in the long thoughtful night,
they showed her to him sitting on her favourite seat, with her bent
head, her hands clasped on her brow, her falling hair. As he had
seen her last. And when they found her thus, they neither turned
nor looked upon him, but gathered close round her, and comforted
and kissed her, and pressed on one another to show sympathy and
kindness to her, and forgot him altogether.

Thus the night passed. The moon went down; the stars grew pale;
the cold day broke; the sun rose. The Carrier still sat, musing,
in the chimney corner. He had sat there, with his head upon his
hands, all night. All night the faithful Cricket had been Chirp,
Chirp, Chirping on the Hearth. All night he had listened to its
voice. All night the household Fairies had been busy with him.
All night she had been amiable and blameless in the glass, except
when that one shadow fell upon it.

He rose up when it was broad day, and washed and dressed himself.
He couldn't go about his customary cheerful avocations—he wanted
spirit for them—but it mattered the less, that it was Tackleton's
wedding-day, and he had arranged to make his rounds by proxy. He
thought to have gone merrily to church with Dot. But such plans
were at an end. It was their own wedding-day too. Ah! how little
he had looked for such a close to such a year!

The Carrier had expected that Tackleton would pay him an early
visit; and he was right. He had not walked to and fro before his
own door, many minutes, when he saw the Toy-merchant coming in his
chaise along the road. As the chaise drew nearer, he perceived
that Tackleton was dressed out sprucely for his marriage, and that
he had decorated his horse's head with flowers and favours.

The horse looked much more like a bridegroom than Tackleton, whose
half-closed eye was more disagreeably expressive than ever. But
the Carrier took little heed of this. His thoughts had other
occupation.

'John Peerybingle!' said Tackleton, with an air of condolence. 'My
good fellow, how do you find yourself this morning?'

'I have had but a poor night, Master Tackleton,' returned the
Carrier, shaking his head: 'for I have been a good deal disturbed
in my mind. But it's over now! Can you spare me half an hour or
so, for some private talk?'

'I came on purpose,' returned Tackleton, alighting. 'Never mind
the horse. He'll stand quiet enough, with the reins over this
post, if you'll give him a mouthful of hay.'

The Carrier having brought it from his stable, and set it before
him, they turned into the house.

'You are not married before noon,' he said, 'I think?'

'No,' answered Tackleton. 'Plenty of time. Plenty of time.'

When they entered the kitchen, Tilly Slowboy was rapping at the
Stranger's door; which was only removed from it by a few steps.
One of her very red eyes (for Tilly had been crying all night long,
because her mistress cried) was at the keyhole; and she was
knocking very loud; and seemed frightened.

'If you please I can't make nobody hear,' said Tilly, looking
round. 'I hope nobody an't gone and been and died if you please!'

This philanthropic wish, Miss Slowboy emphasised with various new
raps and kicks at the door; which led to no result whatever.

'Shall I go?' said Tackleton. 'It's curious.'

The Carrier, who had turned his face from the door, signed to him
to go if he would.

So Tackleton went to Tilly Slowboy's relief; and he too kicked and
knocked; and he too failed to get the least reply. But he thought
of trying the handle of the door; and as it opened easily, he
peeped in, looked in, went in, and soon came running out again.

'John Peerybingle,' said Tackleton, in his ear. 'I hope there has
been nothing—nothing rash in the night?'

The Carrier turned upon him quickly.

'Because he's gone!' said Tackleton; 'and the window's open. I
don't see any marks—to be sure it's almost on a level with the
garden: but I was afraid there might have been some—some scuffle.
Eh?'

He nearly shut up the expressive eye altogether; he looked at him
so hard. And he gave his eye, and his face, and his whole person,
a sharp twist. As if he would have screwed the truth out of him.

'Make yourself easy,' said the Carrier. 'He went into that room
last night, without harm in word or deed from me, and no one has
entered it since. He is away of his own free will. I'd go out
gladly at that door, and beg my bread from house to house, for
life, if I could so change the past that he had never come. But he
has come and gone. And I have done with him!'

'Oh!—Well, I think he has got off pretty easy,' said Tackleton,
taking a chair.

The sneer was lost upon the Carrier, who sat down too, and shaded
his face with his hand, for some little time, before proceeding.

'You showed me last night,' he said at length, 'my wife; my wife
that I love; secretly—'

'And tenderly,' insinuated Tackleton.

'Conniving at that man's disguise, and giving him opportunities of
meeting her alone. I think there's no sight I wouldn't have rather
seen than that. I think there's no man in the world I wouldn't
have rather had to show it me.'

'I confess to having had my suspicions always,' said Tackleton.
'And that has made me objectionable here, I know.'

'But as you did show it me,' pursued the Carrier, not minding him;
'and as you saw her, my wife, my wife that I love'—his voice, and
eye, and hand, grew steadier and firmer as he repeated these words:
evidently in pursuance of a steadfast purpose—'as you saw her at
this disadvantage, it is right and just that you should also see
with my eyes, and look into my breast, and know what my mind is,
upon the subject. For it's settled,' said the Carrier, regarding
him attentively. 'And nothing can shake it now.'

Tackleton muttered a few general words of assent, about its being
necessary to vindicate something or other; but he was overawed by
the manner of his companion. Plain and unpolished as it was, it
had a something dignified and noble in it, which nothing but the
soul of generous honour dwelling in the man could have imparted.

'I am a plain, rough man,' pursued the Carrier, 'with very little
to recommend me. I am not a clever man, as you very well know. I
am not a young man. I loved my little Dot, because I had seen her
grow up, from a child, in her father's house; because I knew how
precious she was; because she had been my life, for years and
years. There's many men I can't compare with, who never could have
loved my little Dot like me, I think!'

He paused, and softly beat the ground a short time with his foot,
before resuming.

'I often thought that though I wasn't good enough for her, I should
make her a kind husband, and perhaps know her value better than
another; and in this way I reconciled it to myself, and came to
think it might be possible that we should be married. And in the
end it came about, and we were married.'

'Hah!' said Tackleton, with a significant shake of the head.

'I had studied myself; I had had experience of myself; I knew how
much I loved her, and how happy I should be,' pursued the Carrier.
'But I had not—I feel it now—sufficiently considered her.'

'To be sure,' said Tackleton. 'Giddiness, frivolity, fickleness,
love of admiration! Not considered! All left out of sight! Hah!'

'You had best not interrupt me,' said the Carrier, with some
sternness, 'till you understand me; and you're wide of doing so.
If, yesterday, I'd have struck that man down at a blow, who dared
to breathe a word against her, to-day I'd set my foot upon his
face, if he was my brother!'

The Toy-merchant gazed at him in astonishment. He went on in a
softer tone:

'Did I consider,' said the Carrier, 'that I took her—at her age,
and with her beauty—from her young companions, and the many scenes
of which she was the ornament; in which she was the brightest
little star that ever shone, to shut her up from day to day in my
dull house, and keep my tedious company? Did I consider how little
suited I was to her sprightly humour, and how wearisome a plodding
man like me must be, to one of her quick spirit? Did I consider
that it was no merit in me, or claim in me, that I loved her, when
everybody must, who knew her? Never. I took advantage of her
hopeful nature and her cheerful disposition; and I married her. I
wish I never had! For her sake; not for mine!'

The Toy-merchant gazed at him, without winking. Even the half-shut
eye was open now.

'Heaven bless her!' said the Carrier, 'for the cheerful constancy
with which she tried to keep the knowledge of this from me! And
Heaven help me, that, in my slow mind, I have not found it out
before! Poor child! Poor Dot!
I
not to find it out, who have
seen her eyes fill with tears, when such a marriage as our own was
spoken of! I, who have seen the secret trembling on her lips a
hundred times, and never suspected it till last night! Poor girl!
That I could ever hope she would be fond of me! That I could ever
believe she was!'