meditating in his chair, the Presence stood beside him; suggesting his
reflections by its power, and presenting them before him, as in a Glass
or Picture. It was not a solitary Presence. From the hearthstone, from
the chimney; from the clock, the pipe, the kettle, and the cradle; from
the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and the stairs; from the cart
without, and the cupboard within, and the household implements; from
every thing and every place with which she had ever been familiar, and
with which she had ever entwined one recollection of herself in her
unhappy husband's mind; Fairies came trooping forth. Not to stand beside
him as the Cricket did, but to busy and bestir themselves. To do all
honor to Her image. To pull him by the skirts, and point to it when it
appeared. To cluster round it, and embrace it, and strew flowers for it
to tread on. To try to crown its fair head with their tiny hands. To
show that they were fond of it and loved it; and that there was not one
ugly, wicked, or accusatory creature to claim knowledge of it--none but
their playful and approving selves.
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 out, 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. Oh 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 had 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 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 had decorated his horse's head with
flowers and favors.
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 easily," 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 stedfast 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 Honor 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 his 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 has 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!"
"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 rivetted, 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!"
"Oh 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," enquired 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 neck 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
enquired, 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.