Read Online Charles Dickens by The Cricket on the Hearth - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: The Cricket on the Hearth
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eh? Where's Dot?'
'I'm here, John!' she said, starting.
'Come, come!' returned the Carrier, clapping his sounding hands.
'Where's the pipe?'
'I quite forgot the pipe, John.'
Forgot the pipe! Was such a wonder ever heard of! She! Forgot
the pipe!
'I'll—I'll fill it directly. It's soon done.'
But it was not so soon done, either. It lay in the usual place—
the Carrier's dreadnought pocket—with the little pouch, her own
work, from which she was used to fill it, but her hand shook so,
that she entangled it (and yet her hand was small enough to have
come out easily, I am sure), and bungled terribly. The filling of
the pipe and lighting it, those little offices in which I have
commended her discretion, were vilely done, from first to last.
During the whole process, Tackleton stood looking on maliciously
with the half-closed eye; which, whenever it met hers—or caught
it, for it can hardly be said to have ever met another eye: rather
being a kind of trap to snatch it up—augmented her confusion in a
most remarkable degree.
'Why, what a clumsy Dot you are, this afternoon!' said John. 'I
could have done it better myself, I verify believe!'
With these good-natured words, he strode away, and presently was
heard, in company with Boxer, and the old horse, and the cart,
making lively music down the road. What time the dreamy Caleb
still stood, watching his blind daughter, with the same expression
on his face.
'Bertha!' said Caleb, softly. 'What has happened? How changed you
are, my darling, in a few hours—since this morning. YOU silent
and dull all day! What is it? Tell me!'
'Oh father, father!' cried the Blind Girl, bursting into tears.
'Oh my hard, hard fate!'
Caleb drew his hand across his eyes before he answered her.
'But think how cheerful and how happy you have been, Bertha! How
good, and how much loved, by many people.'
'That strikes me to the heart, dear father! Always so mindful of
me! Always so kind to me!'
Caleb was very much perplexed to understand her.
'To be—to be blind, Bertha, my poor dear,' he faltered, 'is a
great affliction; but—'
'I have never felt it!' cried the Blind Girl. 'I have never felt
it, in its fulness. Never! I have sometimes wished that I could
see you, or could see him—only once, dear father, only for one
little minute—that I might know what it is I treasure up,' she
laid her hands upon her breast, 'and hold here! That I might be
sure and have it right! And sometimes (but then I was a child) I
have wept in my prayers at night, to think that when your images
ascended from my heart to Heaven, they might not be the true
resemblance of yourselves. But I have never had these feelings
long. They have passed away and left me tranquil and contented.'
'And they will again,' said Caleb.
'But, father! Oh my good, gentle father, bear with me, if I am
wicked!' said the Blind Girl. 'This is not the sorrow that so
weighs me down!'
Her father could not choose but let his moist eyes overflow; she
was so earnest and pathetic, but he did not understand her, yet.
'Bring her to me,' said Bertha. 'I cannot hold it closed and shut
within myself. Bring her to me, father!'
She knew he hesitated, and said, 'May. Bring May!'
May heard the mention of her name, and coming quietly towards her,
touched her on the arm. The Blind Girl turned immediately, and
held her by both hands.
'Look into my face, Dear heart, Sweet heart!' said Bertha. 'Read
it with your beautiful eyes, and tell me if the truth is written on
it.'
'Dear Bertha, Yes!'
The Blind Girl still, upturning the blank sightless face, down
which the tears were coursing fast, addressed her in these words:
'There is not, in my soul, a wish or thought that is not for your
good, bright May! There is not, in my soul, a grateful
recollection stronger than the deep remembrance which is stored
there, of the many many times when, in the full pride of sight and
beauty, you have had consideration for Blind Bertha, even when we
two were children, or
'I'm here, John!' she said, starting.
'Come, come!' returned the Carrier, clapping his sounding hands.
'Where's the pipe?'
'I quite forgot the pipe, John.'
Forgot the pipe! Was such a wonder ever heard of! She! Forgot
the pipe!
'I'll—I'll fill it directly. It's soon done.'
But it was not so soon done, either. It lay in the usual place—
the Carrier's dreadnought pocket—with the little pouch, her own
work, from which she was used to fill it, but her hand shook so,
that she entangled it (and yet her hand was small enough to have
come out easily, I am sure), and bungled terribly. The filling of
the pipe and lighting it, those little offices in which I have
commended her discretion, were vilely done, from first to last.
During the whole process, Tackleton stood looking on maliciously
with the half-closed eye; which, whenever it met hers—or caught
it, for it can hardly be said to have ever met another eye: rather
being a kind of trap to snatch it up—augmented her confusion in a
most remarkable degree.
'Why, what a clumsy Dot you are, this afternoon!' said John. 'I
could have done it better myself, I verify believe!'
With these good-natured words, he strode away, and presently was
heard, in company with Boxer, and the old horse, and the cart,
making lively music down the road. What time the dreamy Caleb
still stood, watching his blind daughter, with the same expression
on his face.
'Bertha!' said Caleb, softly. 'What has happened? How changed you
are, my darling, in a few hours—since this morning. YOU silent
and dull all day! What is it? Tell me!'
'Oh father, father!' cried the Blind Girl, bursting into tears.
'Oh my hard, hard fate!'
Caleb drew his hand across his eyes before he answered her.
'But think how cheerful and how happy you have been, Bertha! How
good, and how much loved, by many people.'
'That strikes me to the heart, dear father! Always so mindful of
me! Always so kind to me!'
Caleb was very much perplexed to understand her.
'To be—to be blind, Bertha, my poor dear,' he faltered, 'is a
great affliction; but—'
'I have never felt it!' cried the Blind Girl. 'I have never felt
it, in its fulness. Never! I have sometimes wished that I could
see you, or could see him—only once, dear father, only for one
little minute—that I might know what it is I treasure up,' she
laid her hands upon her breast, 'and hold here! That I might be
sure and have it right! And sometimes (but then I was a child) I
have wept in my prayers at night, to think that when your images
ascended from my heart to Heaven, they might not be the true
resemblance of yourselves. But I have never had these feelings
long. They have passed away and left me tranquil and contented.'
'And they will again,' said Caleb.
'But, father! Oh my good, gentle father, bear with me, if I am
wicked!' said the Blind Girl. 'This is not the sorrow that so
weighs me down!'
Her father could not choose but let his moist eyes overflow; she
was so earnest and pathetic, but he did not understand her, yet.
'Bring her to me,' said Bertha. 'I cannot hold it closed and shut
within myself. Bring her to me, father!'
She knew he hesitated, and said, 'May. Bring May!'
May heard the mention of her name, and coming quietly towards her,
touched her on the arm. The Blind Girl turned immediately, and
held her by both hands.
'Look into my face, Dear heart, Sweet heart!' said Bertha. 'Read
it with your beautiful eyes, and tell me if the truth is written on
it.'
'Dear Bertha, Yes!'
The Blind Girl still, upturning the blank sightless face, down
which the tears were coursing fast, addressed her in these words:
'There is not, in my soul, a wish or thought that is not for your
good, bright May! There is not, in my soul, a grateful
recollection stronger than the deep remembrance which is stored
there, of the many many times when, in the full pride of sight and
beauty, you have had consideration for Blind Bertha, even when we
two were children, or
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