Charles Dickens by The Cricket on the Hearth Page B

sacrificed some petty
passion, selfishness, or care, and offered up the homage of a
tranquil mind, a trusting nature, and an overflowing heart; so that
the smoke from this poor chimney has gone upward with a better
fragrance than the richest incense that is burnt before the richest
shrines in all the gaudy temples of this world!—Upon your own
hearth; in its quiet sanctuary; surrounded by its gentle influences
and associations; hear her! Hear me! Hear everything that speaks
the language of your hearth and home!'
    'And pleads for her?' inquired the Carrier.
    'All things that speak the language of your hearth and home, must
plead for her!' returned the Cricket. 'For they speak the truth.'
    And while the Carrier, with his head upon his hands, continued to
sit meditating in his chair, the Presence stood beside him,
suggesting his reflections by its power, and presenting them before
him, as in a glass or picture. It was not a solitary Presence.
From the hearthstone, from the chimney, from the clock, the pipe,
the kettle, and the cradle; from the floor, the walls, the ceiling,
and the stairs; from the cart without, and the cupboard within, and
the household implements; from every thing and every place with
which she had ever been familiar, and with which she had ever
entwined one recollection of herself in her unhappy husband's mind;
Fairies came trooping forth. Not to stand beside him as the
Cricket did, but to busy and bestir themselves. To do all honour
to her image. To pull him by the skirts, and point to it when it
appeared. To cluster round it, and embrace it, and strew flowers
for it to tread on. To try to crown its fair head with their tiny
hands. To show that they were fond of it and loved it; and that
there was not one ugly, wicked or accusatory creature to claim
knowledge of it—none but their playful and approving selves.
    His thoughts were constant to her image. It was always there.
    She sat plying her needle, before the fire, and singing to herself.
Such a blithe, thriving, steady little Dot! The fairy figures
turned upon him all at once, by one consent, with one prodigious
concentrated stare, and seemed to say, 'Is this the light wife you
are mourning for!'
    There were sounds of gaiety outside, musical instruments, and noisy
tongues, and laughter. A crowd of young merry-makers came pouring
in, among whom were May Fielding and a score of pretty girls. Dot
was the fairest of them all; as young as any of them too. They
came to summon her to join their party. It was a dance. If ever
little foot were made for dancing, hers was, surely. But she
laughed, and shook her head, and pointed to her cookery on the
fire, and her table ready spread: with an exulting defiance that
rendered her more charming than she was before. And so she merrily
dismissed them, nodding to her would-be partners, one by one, as
they passed, but with a comical indifference, enough to make them
go and drown themselves immediately if they were her admirers—and
they must have been so, more or less; they couldn't help it. And
yet indifference was not her character. O no! For presently,
there came a certain Carrier to the door; and bless her what a
welcome she bestowed upon him!
    Again the staring figures turned upon him all at once, and seemed
to say, 'Is this the wife who has forsaken you!'
    A shadow fell upon the mirror or the picture: call it what you
will. A great shadow of the Stranger, as he first stood underneath
their roof; covering its surface, and blotting out all other
objects. But the nimble Fairies worked like bees to clear it off
again. And Dot again was there. Still bright and beautiful.
    Rocking her little Baby in its cradle, singing to it softly, and
resting her head upon a shoulder which had its counterpart in the
musing figure by which the Fairy Cricket stood.
    The night—I mean the real night: not going by Fairy clocks—was
wearing now; and in this stage of the Carrier's thoughts, the moon
burst out, and shone brightly in the sky.