Dickens' Christmas Specials. Charles Dickens
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burst of animation, ‘what should tire me, Bertha? I was never tired. What does it mean?’
To give the greater force to his words, he checked himself in an involuntary imitation of two half-length stretching and yawning figures on the mantel-shelf, who were represented as in one eternal state of weariness from the waist upwards; and hummed a fragment of a song. It was a Bacchanalian song, something about a Sparkling Bowl. He sang it with an assumption of a Devil-may-care voice, that made his face a thousand times more meagre and more thoughtful than ever.
‘What! You’re singing, are you?’ said Tackleton, putting his head in at the door. ‘Go it! I can’t sing.’
Nobody would have suspected him of it. He hadn’t what is generally termed a singing face, by any means.
‘I can’t afford to sing,’ said Tackleton. ‘I’m glad you can. I hope you can afford to work too. Hardly time for both, I should think?’
‘If you could only see him, Bertha, how he’s winking at me!’ whispered Caleb. ‘Such a man to joke! you’d think, if you didn’t know him, he was in earnest—wouldn’t you now?’
The Blind Girl smiled and nodded.
‘The bird that can sing and won’t sing, must be made to sing, they say,’ grumbled Tackleton. ‘What about the owl that can’t sing, and oughtn’t to sing, and will sing; is there anything that he should be made to do?’
‘The extent to which he’s winking at this moment!’ whispered Caleb to his daughter. ‘O, my gracious!’
‘Always merry and light-hearted with us!’ cried the smiling Bertha.
‘O, you’re there, are you?’ answered Tackleton. ‘Poor Idiot!’
He really did believe she was an Idiot; and he founded the belief, I can’t say whether consciously or not, upon her being fond of him.
‘Well! and being there,—how are you?’ said Tackleton, in his grudging way.
‘Oh! well; quite well. And as happy as even you can wish me to be. As happy as you would make the whole world, if you could!’
‘Poor Idiot!’ muttered Tackleton. ‘No gleam of reason. Not a gleam!’
The Blind Girl took his hand and kissed it; held it for a moment in her own two hands; and laid her cheek against it tenderly, before releasing it. There was such unspeakable affection and such fervent gratitude in the act, that Tackleton himself was moved to say, in a milder growl than usual:
‘What’s the matter now?’
‘I stood it close beside my pillow when I went to sleep last night, and remembered it in my dreams. And when the day broke, and the glorious red sun—the red sun, father?’
‘Red in the mornings and the evenings, Bertha,’ said poor Caleb, with a woeful glance at his employer.
‘When it rose, and the bright light I almost fear to strike myself against in walking, came into the room, I turned the little tree towards it, and blessed Heaven for making things so precious, and blessed you for sending them to cheer me!’
‘Bedlam broke loose!’ said Tackleton under his breath. ‘We shall arrive at the strait-waistcoat and mufflers soon. We’re getting on!’
Caleb, with his hands hooked loosely in each other, stared vacantly before him while his daughter spoke, as if he really were uncertain (I believe he was) whether Tackleton had done anything to deserve her thanks, or not. If he could have been a perfectly free agent, at that moment, required, on pain of death, to kick the Toy-merchant, or fall at his feet, according to his merits, I believe it would have been an even chance which course he would have taken. Yet, Caleb knew that with his own hands he had brought the little rose-tree home for her, so carefully, and that with his own lips he had forged the innocent deception which should help to keep her from suspecting how much, how very much, he every day, denied himself, that she might be the happier.
‘Bertha!’ said Tackleton, assuming, for the nonce, a little cordiality. ‘Come here.’
‘Oh! I can come straight to you! You needn’t guide me!’ she rejoined.
‘Shall I tell you a secret, Bertha?’
‘If you will!’ she answered, eagerly.
How bright the darkened face! How adorned with light, the listening head!
‘This is the day on which little what’s-her-name, the spoilt child, Peerybingle’s wife, pays her regular visit to you—makes her fantastic Pic-Nic here; an’t it?’ said Tackleton, with a strong expression of distaste for the whole concern.
‘Yes,’ replied Bertha. ‘This is the day.’
‘I thought so,’ said Tackleton. ‘I should like to join the party.’
‘Do you hear that, father!’ cried the Blind Girl in an ecstasy.
‘Yes, yes, I hear it,’ murmured Caleb, with the fixed look of a sleep-walker; ‘but I don’t believe it. It’s one of my lies, I’ve no doubt.’
‘You see I—I want to bring the Peerybingles a little more into company with May Fielding,’ said Tackleton. ‘I am going to be married to May.’
‘Married!’ cried the Blind Girl, starting from him.
‘She’s such a con-founded Idiot,’ muttered Tackleton, ‘that I was afraid she’d never comprehend me. Ah, Bertha! Married! Church, parson, clerk, beadle, glass-coach, bells, breakfast, bride-cake, favours, marrow-bones, cleavers, 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, in a gentle tone. ‘I understand!’
‘Do you?’ muttered Tackleton. ‘It’s more than I expected. Well! On that account I want to join the party, and to 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.
She had drooped her head, and turned away; and so stood, with her hands crossed, musing.
‘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 an’t clever in.’
‘Every man thinks his own geese swans,’ observed the Toy-merchant, with a shrug. ‘Poor devil!’
Having delivered himself of which remark, with infinite contempt, old Gruff and Tackleton withdrew.
Bertha remained where he had left her, lost in meditation. The gaiety had vanished from her downcast face, and it was very sad. Three or four times she shook her head, as if bewailing some remembrance or some loss; but her sorrowful reflections found no vent in words.
It was not until Caleb had been occupied, some time, in yoking a team of horses to a waggon by the summary process of nailing the harness to the vital parts of their bodies, that she drew near to his working-stool, and sitting down beside him, said:
‘Father, I am lonely in the dark. I want my eyes, my patient, willing eyes.’
‘Here they are,’ said Caleb. ‘Always ready. They are more yours than mine, Bertha, any hour in the four-and-twenty. What shall your eyes do for you, dear?’
‘Look round the room, father.’
‘All right,’ said Caleb. ‘No sooner said than done, Bertha.’
‘Tell me