Dickens' Christmas Specials. Charles Dickens
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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