A Christmas Carol, the Chimes & the Cricket on the Hearth

by Charles Dickens

  “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 wagon 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 about it.”

  “It’s much the same as usual,” said Caleb. “Homely, but very snug. The gay colours on the walls; the bright flowers on the plates and dishes; the shining wood, where there are beams or panels; the general cheerfulness and neatness of the building; make it very pretty.”

  Cheerful and neat it was, wherever Bertha’s hands could busy themselves. But nowhere else were cheerfulness and neatness possible, in the old crazy shed which Caleb’s fancy so transformed.

  “You have your working-dress on, and are not so gallant as when you wear the handsome coat?” said Bertha, touching him.

  “Not quite so gallant,” answered Caleb. “Pretty brisk, though.”

  “Father,” said the Blind Girl, drawing close to his side; and stealing one arm round his neck, “tell me something about May. She is very fair?”

  “She is indeed,” said Caleb. And she was indeed. It was quite a rare thing to Caleb, not to have to draw on his invention.

  “Her hair is dark,” said Bertha, pensively, “darker than mine. Her voice is sweet and musical, I know. I have often loved to hear it. Her shape—”

  “There’s not a Doll’s in all the room to equal it,” said Caleb. “And her eyes!—”

  He stopped; for Bertha had drawn closer round his neck, and from the arm that clung about him, came a warning pressure which he understood too well.

  He coughed a moment, hammered for a moment, and then fell back upon the song about the sparkling bowl, his infallible resource in all such difficulties.

  “Our friend, father, our benefactor. I am never tired: you know, of hearing about him. Now, was I ever?” she said, hastily.

  “Of course not,” answered Caleb, “and with reason.”

  “Ah! With how much reason!” cried the Blind Girl. With such fervency, that Caleb, though his motives were so pure, could not endure to meet her face; but dropped his eyes, as if she could have read in them his innocent deceit.

  “Then tell me again about him, dear father,” said Bertha. “Many times again! His face is benevolent, kind, and tender. Honest and true, I am sure it is. The manly heart that tries to cloak all favours with a show of roughness and unwillingness, beats in its every look and glance.”

  “And makes it noble,” added Caleb, in his quiet desperation.

  “And makes it noble!” cried the Blind Girl. “He is older than May, father.”

  “Ye-es,” said Caleb, reluctantly. “He’s a little older than May. But that don’t signify.”

  “Oh, father, yes! To be his patient companion in infirmity and age; to be his gentle nurse in sickness, and his constant friend in suffering and sorrow; to know no weariness in working for his sake; to watch him, tend him, sit beside his bed and talk to him awake, and pray for him asleep; what privileges these would be! What opportunities for proving all her truth and her devotion to him! Would she do all this, dear father?”

  “No doubt of it,” said Caleb.

  “I love her, father; I can love her from my soul!” exclaimed the Blind Girl. And saying so, she laid her poor blind face on Caleb’s shoulder, and so wept and wept that he was almost sorry to have brought that tearful happiness upon her.

  In the meantime, there had been a pretty sharp commotion at John Peerybingle’s, for little Mrs. Peerybingle naturally couldn’t think of going anywhere without the Baby; and to get the Baby under weigh,46 took time. Not that there was much of the Baby, speaking of it as a thing of weight and measure, but there was a vast deal to do about and about it, and it all had to be done by easy stages. For instance, when the Baby was got by hook and by crook to a certain point of dressing, and you might have rationally supposed that another touch or two would finish him off, and turn him out a tip-top Baby challenging the world, he was unexpectedly extinguished in a flannel cap, and hustled off to bed; where he simmered (so to speak) between two blankets for the best part of an hour. From this state of inaction he was then recalled, shining very much and roaring violently, to partake of—well? I would rather say, if you’ll permit me to speak generally—of a slight repast. After which, he went to sleep again. Mrs. Peerybingle took advantage of this interval to make herself as smart in a small way as ever you saw anybody in all your life; and, during the same short truce, Miss Slowboy insinuated herself into a spencer47 of a fashion so surprising and ingenious, that it had no connection with herself, or anything else in the universe, but was a shrunken, dog’s-eared, independent fact, pursuing its lonely course without the least regard to anybody. By this time, the Baby, being all alive again, was invested, by the united efforts of Mrs. Peerybingle and Miss Slowboy, with a cream-coloured mantle for his body, and a sort of nankeen raised-pie for its head; and so in course of time they all three got down to the door, where the old horse had already taken more than the full value of his day’s toll out of the Turnpike Trust, by tearing up the road with his impatient autographs; and whence Boxer might be dimly seen in the remote perspective, standing looking back, and tempting him to come on without orders.

  As to a chair or anything of that kind for helping Mrs. Peerybingle into the cart, you know very little of John, if you think that was necessary. Before you could have seen him lift her from the ground, there she was in her place, fresh and rosy, saying, “John! How can you! Think of Tilly!”

  If I might be allowed to mention a young lady’s legs, on any terms, I would observe of Miss Slowboy’s that there was a fatality about them which rendered them singularly liable to be grazed; and that she never affected the smallest ascent or descent, without recording the circumstance upon them with a notch, as Robinson Crusoe marked the days upon his wooden calendar. But as this might be considered ungenteel, I’ll think of it.

  “John?You’ve got the basket with the Veal and Ham Pie and things, and the bottles of Beer?” said Dot. “If you haven’t, you must turn round again, this very minute.”

  “You’re a nice little article,” returned the Carrier, “to be talking about turning round, after keeping me a full quarter of an hour behind my time.”

  “I am sorry for it, John,” said Dot in a great bustle, “but I really could not think of going to Bertha’s—I would not do it, John, on any account—without the Veal and Ham Pie and things, and the bottles of Beer. Way!”48

  This monosyllable was addressed to the horse, who didn’t mind it at all.

  “Oh, do way, John!” said Mrs. Peerybingle. “Please!”

  “It’ll be time enough to do that,” returned John, “when I begin to leave thi
ngs behind me. The basket’s here safe enough.”

  “What a hard-hearted monster you must be, John, not to have said so, at once, and save me such a turn! I declare I wouldn’t go to Bertha’s without the Veal and Ham Pie and things, and the bottles of Beer, for any money. Regularly once a fortnight ever since we have been married, John, have we made our little Pic-Nic there. If anything was to go wrong with it, I should almost think we were never to be lucky again.”

  “It was a kind thought in the first instance,” said the Carrier; “and I honour you for it, little woman.”

  “My dear John,” replied Dot, turning very red. “Don’t talk about honouring me. Good gracious!”

  “By-the-bye—” observed the Carrier, “that old gentleman—”

  Again so visibly and instantly embarrassed.

  “He’s an odd fish,” said the Carrier, looking straight along the road before them. “I can’t make him out. I don’t believe there’s any harm in him.”

  “None at all. I’m—I’m sure there’s none at all.”

  “Yes,” said the Carrier, with his eyes attracted to her face by the great earnestness of her manner. “I am glad you feel so certain of it, because it’s a confirmation to me. It’s curious he should have taken it into his head to ask leave to go on lodging with us, ain’t it? Things come about so strangely.”

  “So very strangely,” she rejoined in a low voice, scarcely audible.

  “However, he’s a good-natured old gentleman,” said John, “and pays as a gentleman, and I think his word is to be relied upon, like a gentleman’s. I had quite a long talk with him this morning; he can hear me better already, he says, as he gets more used to my voice. He told me a great deal about himself, and I told him a good deal about myself, and a rare lot of questions he asked me. I gave him information about my having two beats, you know, in my business; one day to the right from our house and back again, another day to the left from our house and back again (for he’s a stranger and don’t know the names of places about here); and he seemed quite pleased. ‘Why, then I shall be returning home to-night your way,’ he says, ‘when I thought you’d be coming in an exactly opposite direction. That’s capital ! I may trouble you for another lift, perhaps, but I’ll engage not to fall so sound asleep again.’ He was sound asleep, sure-ly!—Dot! what are you thinking of?”

  “Thinking of, John? I—I was listening to you.”

  “Oh! That’s all right!” said the honest Carrier. “I was afraid, from the look of your face, that I had gone rambling on so long, as to set you thinking about something else. I was very near it, I’ll be bound.”

  Dot making no reply, they jogged on, for some little time, in silence. But, it was not easy to remain silent very long in John Peerybingle’s cart, for everybody on the road had something to say. Though it might only be, “How are you?” and indeed it was very often nothing else, still, to give that back again in the right spirit of cordiality, required not merely a nod and a smile, but as wholesome an action of the lungs, withal, as a long-winded Parliamentary speech. Sometimes, passengers, on foot, or horseback, plodded on a little way beside the cart, for the express purpose of having a chat; and then there was a great deal to be said, on both sides.

  Then, Boxer gave occasion to more good-natured recognitions of, and by, the Carrier, than half-a-dozen Christians could have done! Everybody knew him, all along the road—especially the fowls and pigs, who, when they saw him approaching, with his body all on one side, and his ears pricked up inquisitively, and that knob of a tail making the most of itself in the air, immediately withdrew into remote back settlements, without waiting for the honour of a nearer acquaintance. He had business everywhere; going down all the turnings, looking into all the wells, bolting in and out of all the cottages, dashing into the midst of all the Dame-Schools, fluttering all the pigeons, magnifying the tails of all the cats, and trotting into the public-houses like a regular customer. Wherever he went, somebody or other might have been heard to cry, “Halloa! Here’s Boxer!” and out came that somebody forthwith, accompanied by at least two or three other somebodies, to give John Peerybingle and his pretty wife Good-Day.

  The packages and parcels for the errand cart were numerous; and there were many stoppages to take them in and give them out, which were not by any means the worst parts of the journey. Some people were so full of expectation about their parcels, and other people were so full of wonder about their parcels, and other people were so full of inexhaustible directions about their parcels, and John had such a lively interest in all the parcels, that it was as good as a play. Likewise, there were articles to carry, which required to be considered and discussed, and in reference to the adjustment and disposition of which, councils had to be holden by the Carrier and the senders: at which Boxer usually assisted, in short fits of the closest attention, and long fits of tearing round and round the assembled sages and barking himself hoarse. Of all these little incidents, Dot was the amused and opened-eyed spectatress from her chair in the cart; and as she sat there, looking on—a charming little portrait framed to admiration by the tilt—there was no lack of nudgings and glancings and whisperings and envyings among the younger men. And this delighted John the Carrier beyond measure; for he was proud to have his little wife admired, knowing that she didn’t mind it—that, if anything, she rather liked it, perhaps.

  The trip was a little foggy, to be sure, in the January weather; and was raw and cold. But who cared for such trifles? Not Dot, decidedly. Not Tilly Slowboy, for she deemed sitting in a cart, on any terms, to be the highest point of human joys; the crowning circumstance of earthly hopes. Not the Baby, I’ll be sworn; for it’s not in Baby nature to be warmer or more sound asleep, though its capacity is great in both respects, than that blessed young Peerybingle was, all the way.

  You couldn’t see very far in the fog, of course; but you could see a great deal! It’s astonishing how much you may see, in a thicker fog than that, if you will only take the trouble to look for it. Why, even to sit watching for the Fairy-rings in the fields, and for the patches of hoar-frost still lingering in the shade, near hedges and by trees, was a pleasant occupation, to make no mention of the unexpected shapes in which the trees themselves came starting out of the mist, and glided into it again. The hedges were tangled and bare, and waved a multitude of blighted garlands in the wind; but there was no discouragement in this. It was agreeable to contemplate; for it made the fireside warmer in possession, and the summer greener in expectancy. The river looked chilly; but it was in motion, and moving at a good pace—which was a great point. The canal was rather slow and torpid; that must be admitted. Never mind. It would freeze the sooner when the frost set fairly in, and then there would be skating and sliding; and the heavy old barges, frozen up somewhere near a wharf, would smoke their rusty iron chimney pipes all day, and have a lazy time of it.

  In one place there was a great mound of weeds or stubble burning, and they watched the fire, so white in the daytime, flaring through the fog, with only here and there a dash of red in it, until, in consequence as she observed of the smoke “getting up her nose,” Miss Slowboy choked—she could do anything of that sort on the smallest provocation—and woke the Baby, who wouldn’t go to sleep again. But Boxer, who was in advance some quarter of a mile or so, had already passed the outposts of the town, and gained the corner of the street where Caleb and his daughter lived; and long before they had reached the door, he and the Blind Girl were on the pavement waiting to receive them.

  Boxer, by the way, made certain delicate distinctions of his own in his communication with Bertha, which persuade me fully that he knew her to be blind. He never sought to attract her attention by looking at her, as he often did with other people, but touched her invariably. What experience he could ever have had of blind people or blind dogs I don’t know. He had never lived with a blind master: nor had Mr. Boxer the elder, nor Mrs. Boxer, nor any of his respectable family on either side, ever been visited with blindness, that I am aware of. He may
have found it out for himself, perhaps, but he had got hold of it somehow; and therefore he had hold of Bertha too, by the skirt, and kept hold, until Mrs. Peerybingle and the Baby, and Miss Slowboy, and the basket, were all got safely within doors.

  May Fielding was already come; and so was her mother—a little querulous chip of an old lady with a peevish face, who, in right of having preserved a waist like a bed-post, was supposed to be a most transcendent figure; and who, in consequence of having once been better off, or of labouring under an impression that she might have been, if something had happened which never did happen, and seemed to have never been particularly likely to come to pass—but it’s all the same—was very genteel and patronising indeed. Gruff and Tackleton was also there, doing the agreeable, with the evident sensation of being as perfectly at home, and as unquestionably in his own element, as a fresh young salmon on the top of the Great Pyramid.

  “May! My dear old friend!” cried Dot, running up to meet her. “What a happiness to see you!”

  Her old friend was, to the full, as hearty and as glad as she; and it really was, if you’ll believe me, quite a pleasant sight to see them embrace. Tackleton was a man of taste, beyond all question. May was very pretty.

  You know sometimes, when you are used to a pretty face, how, when it comes into contact and comparison with another pretty face, it seems for the moment to be homely and faded, and hardly to deserve the high opinion you have had of it. Now, this was not at all the case, either with Dot or May; for May’s face set off Dot’s and Dot’s face set off May’s, so naturally and agreeably that, as John Peerybingle was very near saying when he came into the room, they ought to have been born sisters—which was the only improvement you could have suggested.

  Tackleton had brought his leg of mutton, and, wonderful to relate, a tart besides—but we don’t mind a little dissipation when our brides are in the case; we don’t get married every day—and in addition to these dainties, there were the Veal and Ham Pie, and “things,” as Mrs. Peerybingle called them; which were chiefly nuts and oranges, and cakes, and such small deer.49 When the repast was set forth on the board, flanked by Caleb’s contribution, which was a great wooden bowl of smoking potatoes (he was prohibited, by solemn compact, from producing any other viands), Tackleton led his intended mother-in-law to the post of honour. For the better gracing of this place at the high festival, the majestic old soul had adorned herself with a cap calculated to inspire the thoughtless with sentiments of awe. She also wore her gloves. But let us be genteel, or die!