by A. A. Milne
‘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!’
‘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 t
he 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.’
‘Yes, yes. She will. Go on.’
‘He is an old man, worn with care and work. He is a spare, dejected, thoughtful, grey–haired man. I see him now, despondent and bowed down, and striving against nothing. But, Bertha, I have seen him many times before, and striving hard in many ways for one great sacred object. And I honour his grey head, and bless him!’
The Blind Girl broke away from her; and throwing herself upon her knees before him, took the grey head to her breast.
