Christmas Stories. Чарльз Диккенс

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СКАЧАТЬ to put this sort of thing down; and that if it will be agreeable to me to have Will Fern put down, he will be happy to begin with him.”

      “Let him be made an example of, by all means,” returned the lady. “Last winter, when I introduced pinking and eyelet-holing among the men and boys in the village, as a nice evening employment, and had the lines,

      O let us love our occupations,

      Bless the squire and his relations,

      Live upon our daily rations,

      And always know our proper stations,

      set to music on the new system, for them to sing the while; this very Fern—I see him now—touched that hat of his, and said, ‘I humbly ask your pardon, my lady, but an’t I something different from a great girl?’ I expected it, of course; who can expect anything but insolence and ingratitude from that class of people! That is not to the purpose, however. Sir Joseph! Make an example of him!”

      “Hem!” coughed Sir Joseph. “Mr. Fish, if you’ll have the goodness to attend—”

      Mr. Fish immediately seized his pen, and wrote from Sir Joseph’s dictation.

      “Private. My dear Sir. I am very much indebted to you for your courtesy in the matter of the man William Fern, of whom, I regret to add, I can say nothing favourable. I have uniformly considered myself in the light of his Friend and Father, but have been repaid (a common case, I grieve to say) with ingratitude, and constant opposition to my plans. He is a turbulent and rebellious spirit. His character will not bear investigation. Nothing will persuade him to be happy when he might. Under these circumstances, it appears to me, I own, that when he comes before you again (as you informed me he promised to do to-morrow, pending your inquiries, and I think he may be so far relied upon), his committal for some short term as a Vagabond, would be a service to society, and would be a salutary example in a country where—for the sake of those who are, through good and evil report, the Friends and Fathers of the Poor, as well as with a view to that, generally speaking, misguided class themselves—examples are greatly needed. And I am,” and so forth.

      “It appears,” remarked Sir Joseph when he had signed this letter, and Mr. Fish was sealing it, “as if this were Ordained: really. At the close of the year, I wind up my account and strike my balance, even with William Fern!”

      Trotty, who had long ago relapsed, and was very low-spirited, stepped forward with a rueful face to take the letter.

      “With my compliments and thanks,” said Sir Joseph. “Stop!”

      “Stop!” echoed Mr. Fish.

      “You have heard, perhaps,” said Sir Joseph, oracularly, “certain remarks into which I have been led respecting the solemn period of time at which we have arrived, and the duty imposed upon us of settling our affairs, and being prepared. You have observed that I don’t shelter myself behind my superior standing in society, but that Mr. Fish—that gentleman—has a cheque-book at his elbow, and is in fact here, to enable me to turn over a perfectly new leaf, and enter on the epoch before us with a clean account. Now, my friend, can you lay your hand upon your heart, and say, that you also have made preparations for a New Year?”

      “I am afraid, sir,” stammered Trotty, looking meekly at him, “that I am a—a—little behind-hand with the world.”

      “Behind-hand with the world!” repeated Sir Joseph Bowley, in a tone of terrible distinctness.

      “I am afraid, sir,” faltered Trotty, “that there’s a matter of ten or twelve shillings owing to Mrs. Chickenstalker.”

      “To Mrs. Chickenstalker!” repeated Sir Joseph, in the same tone as before.

      “A shop, sir,” exclaimed Toby, “in the general line. Also a—a little money on account of rent. A very little, sir. It oughtn’t to be owing, I know, but we have been hard put to it, indeed!”

      Sir Joseph looked at his lady, and at Mr. Fish, and at Trotty, one after another, twice all round. He then made a despondent gesture with both hands at once, as if he gave the thing up altogether.

      “How a man, even among this improvident and impracticable race; an old man; a man grown grey; can look a New Year in the face, with his affairs in this condition; how he can lie down on his bed at night, and get up again in the morning, and—There!” he said, turning his back on Trotty. “Take the letter. Take the letter!”

      “I heartily wish it was otherwise, sir,” said Trotty, anxious to excuse himself. “We have been tried very hard.”

      Sir Joseph still repeating “Take the letter, take the letter!” and Mr. Fish not only saying the same thing, but giving additional force to the request by motioning the bearer to the door, he had nothing for it but to make his bow and leave the house. And in the street, poor Trotty pulled his worn old hat down on his head, to hide the grief he felt at getting no hold on the New Year, anywhere.

      He didn’t even lift his hat to look up at the Bell tower when he came to the old church on his return. He halted there a moment, from habit: and knew that it was growing dark, and that the steeple rose above him, indistinct and faint, in the murky air. He knew, too, that the Chimes would ring immediately; and that they sounded to his fancy, at such a time, like voices in the clouds. But he only made the more haste to deliver the Alderman’s letter, and get out of the way before they began; for he dreaded to hear them tagging “Friends and Fathers, Friends and Fathers,” to the burden they had rung out last.

      Toby discharged himself of his commission, therefore, with all possible speed, and set off trotting homeward. But what with his pace, which was at best an awkward one in the street; and what with his hat, which didn’t improve it; he trotted against somebody in less than no time, and was sent staggering out into the road.

      “I beg your pardon, I’m sure!” said Trotty, pulling up his hat in great confusion, and between the hat and the torn lining, fixing his head into a kind of bee-hive. “I hope I haven’t hurt you.”

      As to hurting anybody, Toby was not such an absolute Samson, but that he was much more likely to be hurt himself: and indeed, he had flown out into the road, like a shuttlecock. He had such an opinion of his own strength, however, that he was in real concern for the other party: and said again,

      “I hope I haven’t hurt you?”

      The man against whom he had run; a sun-browned, sinewy, country-looking man, with grizzled hair, and a rough chin; stared at him for a moment, as if he suspected him to be in jest. But, satisfied of his good faith, he answered:

      “No, friend. You have not hurt me.”

      “Nor the child, I hope?” said Trotty.

      “Nor the child,” returned the man. “I thank you kindly.”

      As he said so, he glanced at a little girl he carried in his arms, asleep: and shading her face with the long end of the poor handkerchief he wore about his throat, went slowly on.

      The tone in which he said “I thank you kindly,” penetrated Trotty’s heart. He was so jaded and foot-sore, and so soiled with travel, and looked about him so forlorn and strange, that it was a comfort to him to be able to thank any one: no matter for how little. Toby stood gazing after him as he plodded wearily away, with the child’s arm clinging round his neck.

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