When Scrooge awoke, it was so
dark, that looking out of bed,
he could scarcely distinguish
the transparent window from the
opaque walls of his chamber.
He was endeavouring to pierce
the darkness with his ferret
eyes, when the chimes of a neighbouring
church struck the four quarters.
So he listened
for the hour.
To his great astonishment the
heavy bell went on from six to
seven, and from seven to eight,
and regularly up to twelve; then
stopped. Twelve! It was past
two when he went to bed. The
clock was wrong. An icicle must
have got into the works. Twelve!
He touched the spring of his
repeater, to correct this most
preposterous clock. Its rapid
little pulse beat twelve: and
stopped.
``Why, it isn't possible,''
said Scrooge, ``that I can have
slept through a whole day and
far into another night. It isn't
possible that anything has happened
to the sun, and this is twelve
at noon!''
The idea being an alarming one,
he scrambled out of bed, and
groped his way to the window.
He was obliged to rub the frost
off with the sleeve of his dressing-gown
before he could see anything;
and could see very little then.
All he could make out was, that
it was still very foggy and extremely
cold, and that there was no noise
of people running to and fro,
and making a great stir, as there
unquestionably would have been
if night had beaten off bright
day, and taken possession of
the world. This was a great relief,
because ``three days after sight
of this First of Exchange pay
to Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge or his
order,'' and so forth, would
have become a mere United States'
security if there were no days
to count by.
Scrooge went to be again, and
thought, and 1 thought, and thought
it over and over, and could make
nothing of it. The more he thought,
the more perplexed he was; and
the more he endeavoured not to
think, the more he thought Marley's
Ghost bothered him exceedingly.
Every time he resolved within
himself, after mature inquiry,
that it was all a dream, his
mind flew back, like a strong
spring released, to its first
position, and presented the same
problem to be worked all through,
``Was it a dream or not?''
Scrooge lay in this state until
the chime had gone three quarters
more, when he remembered, on
a sudden, that the Ghost had
warned him of a visitation when
the bell tolled one. He resolved
to lie awake until the hour was
past; and, considering that he
could no more go to sleep than
go to Heaven, this was perhaps
the wisest resolution in his
power.
The quarter was so long, that
he was more than once convinced
he must have sunk into a doze
unconsciously, and missed the
clock. At length it broke upon
his listening ear.
``Ding, dong!''
``A quarter past,'' said Scrooge,
counting.
``Ding, dong!''
``Half past!'' said Scrooge.
``Ding, dong!''
``A quarter to it,'' said Scrooge.
``Ding, dong!''
``The hour itself,'' said Scrooge,
triumphantly, ``and nothing else!''
He spoke before the hour bell
sounded, which it now did with
a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy
ONE. Light flashed up in the
room upon the instant, and the
curtains of his bed were drawn.
The curtains of his bed were
drawn aside, I tell you, by a
hand. Not the curtains at his
feet, nor the curtains at his
back, but those to which his
face was addressed. The curtains
of his bed were drawn aside;
and Scrooge, starting up into
a half-recumbent attitude, found
himself face to face with the
unearthly visitor who drew them:
as close to it as I am now to
you, and I am standing in the
spirit at your elbow.
It was a strange figure -- like
a child: yet not so like a child
as like an old man, viewed through
some supernatural medium, which
gave him the appearance of having
receded from the view, and being
diminished to a child's proportions.
Its hair, which hung about its
neck and down its back, was white
as if with age; and yet the face
had not a wrinkle in it, and
the tenderest bloom was on the
skin. The arms were very long
and muscular; the hands the same,
as if its hold were of uncommon
strength. Its legs and feet,
most delicately formed, were,
like those upper members, bare.
It wore a tunic of the purest
white and round its waist was
bound a lustrous belt, the sheen
of which was beautiful. It held
a branch of fresh green holly
in its hand; and, in singular
contradiction of that wintry
emblem, had its dress trimmed
with summer flowers. But the
strangest thing about it was,
that from the crown of its head
there sprung a bright clear jet
of light, by which all this was
visible; and which was doubtless
the occasion of its using, in
its duller moments, a great extinguisher
for a cap, which it now held
under its arm.
Even this, though, when Scrooge
looked at it with increasing
steadiness, was not its
strangest quality. For as its
belt sparkled and glittered now
in one part and now in another,
and what was light one instant,
at another time was dark, so
the figure itself fluctuated
in its distinctness: being now
a thing with one arm, now with
one leg, now with twenty legs,
now a pair of legs without a
head, now a head without a body:
of which dissolving parts, no
outline would be visible in the
dense gloom wherein they melted
away. And in the very wonder
of this, it would be itself again;
distinct and clear as ever.
``Are you the Spirit, sir, whose
coming was foretold to me?''
asked Scrooge.
``I am!''
The voice was soft and gentle.
Singularly low, as if instead
of being so close beside him,
it were at a distance.
``Who, and what are you?'' Scrooge
demanded.
``I am the Ghost of Christmas
Past.''
``Long past?'' inquired Scrooge:
observant of its dwarfish stature.
``No. Your past.''
Perhaps, Scrooge could not have
told anybody why, if anybody
could have asked him; but he
had a special desire to see the
Spirit in his cap; and begged
him to be covered.
``What!'' exclaimed the Ghost,
``would you so soon put out,
with worldly hands, the light
I give? Is it not enough that
you are one of those whose passions
made this cap, and force me through
whole trains of years to wear
it low upon my brow!''
Scrooge reverently disclaimed
all intention to offend or any
knowledge of having wilfully bonneted the
Spirit at any period of his life.
He then made bold to inquire
what business brought him there.
``Your welfare!'' said the Ghost.
Scrooge expressed himself much
obliged, but could not help thinking
that a night of unbroken rest
would have been more conducive
to that end. The Spirit must
have heard him thinking, for
it said immediately:
``Your reclamation, then. Take
heed!''
It put out its strong hand as
it spoke, and clasped him gently
by the arm.
``Rise! and walk with me!''
It would have been in vain for
Scrooge to plead that the weather
and the hour were not adapted
to pedestrian purposes; that
bed was warm, and the thermometer
a long way below freezing; that
he was clad but lightly in his
slippers, dressing-gown, and
nightcap; and that he had a cold
upon him at that time. The grasp,
though gentle as a woman's hand,
was not to be resisted. He rose:
but finding that the Spirit made
towards the window, clasped his
robe in supplication.
``I am mortal,'' Scrooge remonstrated,
``and liable to fall.''
``Bear but a touch of my hand there,''
said the Spirit, laying it upon
his heart, ``and you shall be
upheld in more than this!''
As the words were spoken, they
passed through the wall, and
stood upon an open country road,
with fields on either hand. The
city had entirely vanished. Not
a vestige of it was to be seen.
The darkness and the mist had
vanished with it, for it was
a clear, cold, winter day, with
snow upon the ground. ``Good
Heaven!'' said Scrooge, clasping
his hands together, as he looked
about him. ``I was bred in this
place. I was a boy here!''
The Spirit gazed upon him mildly.
Its gentle touch, though it had
been light and instantaneous,
appeared still present to the
old man's sense of feeling. He
was conscious of a thousand odours
floating in the air, each one
connected with a thousand thoughts,
and hopes, and joys, and cares
long, long, forgotten.
``Your lip is trembling,'' said
the Ghost. ``And what is that
upon your cheek?''
Scrooge muttered, with an unusual
catching in his voice, that it
was a pimple; and begged the
Ghost to lead him where he would.
``You recollect the way?'' inquired
the Spirit.
``Remember it!'' cried Scrooge
with fervour; ``I could walk
it blindfold.''
``Strange to have forgotten
it for so many years!'' observed
the Ghost. ``Let us go on.''
They walked along the road;
Scrooge recognising every gate,
and post, and tree; until a little
market-town appeared in the distance,
with its bridge, its church,
and winding river. Some shaggy
ponies now were seen trotting
towards them with boys upon their
backs, who called to other boys
in country gigs and carts, driven
by farmers. All these boys were
in great spirits, and shouted
to each other, until the broad
fields were so full of merry
music, that the crisp air laughed
to hear it.
``These are but shadows of the
things that have been,'' said
the Ghost. ``They have no consciousness
of us.''
The jocund travellers came on;
and as they came, Scrooge knew
and named them every one. Why
was he rejoiced beyond all bounds
to see them! Why did his cold
eye glisten, and his heart leap
up as they went past! Why was
he filled with gladness when
he heard them give each other
Merry Christmas, as they parted
at cross-roads and bye-ways,
for their several homes! What
was merry Christmas to Scrooge?
Out upon merry Christmas! What
good had it ever done to him?
``The school is not quite deserted,''
said the Ghost. ``A solitary
child, neglected by his friends,
is left there still.''
Scrooge said he knew it. And
he sobbed.
They left the high-road, by
a well-remembered lane, and soon
approached a mansion of dull
red brick, with a little weathercock-surmounted
cupola, on the roof, and a bell
hanging in it. It was a large
house, but one of broken fortunes;
for the spacious offices were
little used, their walls were
damp and mossy, their windows
broken, and their gates decayed.
Fowls clucked and strutted in
the stables; and the coach-houses
and sheds were over-run with
grass. Nor was it more retentive
of its ancient state, within;
for entering the dreary hall,
and glancing through the open
doors of many rooms, they found
them poorly furnished, cold,
and vast. There was an earthy
savour in the air, a chilly bareness
in the place, which associated
itself somehow with too much
getting up by candle-light, and
not too much to eat.
They went, the Ghost and Scrooge,
across the hall, to a door at
the back of the house. It opened
before them, and disclosed a
long, bare, melancholy room,
made barer still by lines of
plain deal forms and desks. At
one of these a lonely boy was
reading near a feeble fire; and
Scrooge sat down upon a form,
and wept to see his poor forgotten
self as he used to be.
Not a latent echo in the house,
not a squeak and scuffle from
the mice behind the panneling,
not a drip from the half-thawed
water-spout in the dull yard
behind, not a sigh among the
leafless boughs of one despondent
poplar, not the idle swinging
of an empty store-house door,
no, not a clicking in the fire,
but fell upon the heart of Scrooge
with a softening influence, and
gave a freer passage to his tears.
The Spirit touched him on the
arm, and pointed to his younger
self, intent upon his reading.
Suddenly a man, in foreign garments:
wonderfully real and distinct
to look at: stood outside the
window, with an axe stuck in
his belt, and leading an ass
laden with wood by the bridle.
``Why, it's Ali Baba! '' Scrooge
exclaimed in ecstasy. ``It's
dear old honest Ali Baba! Yes,
yes, I know! One Christmas time,
when yonder solitary child was
left here all alone, he did come,
for the first time, just like
that. Poor boy! And Valentine,''
said Scrooge, ``and his wild
brother, Orson; there they go!
And what's his name, who was
put down in his drawers, asleep,
at the Gate of Damascus; don't
you see him! And the Sultan's
Groom turned upside-down by the
Genii; there he is upon his head!
Serve him right. I'm glad of
it. What business had he to
be married to the Princess!''
To hear Scrooge expending all
the earnestness of his nature
on such subjects, in a most extraordinary
voice between laughing and crying;
and to see his heightened and
excited face; would have been
a surprise to his business friends
in the city, indeed.
``There's the Parrot!'' cried
Scrooge. ``Green body and yellow
tail, with a thing like a lettuce
growing out of the top of his
head; there he is! Poor Robin
Crusoe, he called him, when he
came home again after sailing
round the island. ``Poor Robin
Crusoe, where have you been,
Robin Crusoe?'' The man thought
he was dreaming, but he wasn't.
It was the Parrot, you know.
There goes Friday, running for
his life to the little creek!
Halloa! Hoop! Halloo!''
Then, with a rapidity of transition
very foreign to his usual character,
he said, in pity for his former
self, ``Poor boy!'' and cried
again.
``I wish,'' Scrooge muttered,
putting his hand in his pocket,
and looking about him, after
drying his eyes with his cuff:
``but it's too late now.''
``What is the matter?'' asked
the Spirit.
``Nothing,'' said Scrooge. ``Nothing.
There was a boy singing a Christmas
Carol at my door last night.
I should like to have given him
something: that's all.''
The Ghost smiled thoughtfully,
and waved its hand: saying as
it did so, ``Let us see another
Christmas!''
Scrooge's former self grew larger
at the words, and the room became
a little darker and more dirty.
The panels shrunk, the windows
cracked; fragments of plaster
fell out of the ceiling, and
the naked laths were shown instead;
but how all this was brought
about, Scrooge knew no more than
you do. He only knew that it
was quite correct; that everything
had happened so; that there he
was, alone again, when all the
other boys had gone home for
the jolly holidays.
He was not reading now, but
walking up and down despairingly.
Scrooge looked at the Ghost,
and with a mournful shaking of
his head, glanced anxiously towards
the door.
It opened; and a little girl,
much younger than the boy, came
darting in, and putting her arms
about his neck, and often kissing
him, addressed him as her ``Dear,
dear brother.''
``I have come to bring you home,
dear brother!'' said the child,
clapping her tiny hands, and
bending down to laugh. ``To bring
you home, home, home!''
``Home, little Fan?'' returned
the boy.
``Yes!'' said the child, brimful
of glee. ``Home, for good and
all. Home, for ever and ever.
Father is so much kinder than
he used to be, that home's like
Heaven! He spoke so gently to
me one dear night when I was
going to bed, that I was not
afraid to ask him once more if
you might come home; and he said
Yes, you should; and sent me
in a coach to bring you. And
you're to be a man!'' said the
child, opening her eyes, ``and
are never to come back here;
but first, we're to be together
all the Christmas long, and have
the merriest time in all the
world.''
``You are quite a woman, little
Fan!'' exclaimed the boy.
She clapped her hands and laughed,
and tried to touch his head;
but being too little, laughed
again, and stood on tiptoe to
embrace him. Then she began to
drag him, in her childish eagerness,
towards the door; and he, nothing
loth to go, accompanied her.
A terrible voice in the hall
cried. ``Bring down Master Scrooge's
box, there! '' and in the hall
appeared the schoolmaster himself,
who glared on Master Scrooge
with a ferocious condescension,
and threw him into a dreadful
state of mind by shaking hands
with him. He then conveyed him
and his sister into the veriest
old well of a shivering best-parlour
that ever was seen, where the
maps upon the wall, and the celestial
and terrestrial globes in the
windows, were waxy with cold.
Here he produced a decanter of
curiously light wine, and a block
of curiously heavy cake, and
administered instalments of those
dainties to the young people:
at the same time, sending out
a meagre servant to offer a glass
of something to
the postboy, who answered that
he thanked the gentleman, but
if it was the same tap as he
had tasted before, he had rather
not. Master Scrooge's trunk being
by this time tied on to the top
of the chaise, the children bade
the schoolmaster good-bye right
willingly; and getting into it,
drove gaily down the garden-sweep:
the quick wheels dashing the
hoar-frost and snow from off
the dark leaves of the evergreens
like spray.
``Always a delicate creature,
whom a breath might have withered,''
said the Ghost. ``But she had
a large heart!''
``So she had,'' cried Scrooge.
``You're right, I will not gainsay
it, Spirit. God forbid!''
``She died a woman,'' said the
Ghost, ``and had, as I think,
children.''
``One child,'' Scrooge returned.
``True,'' said the Ghost. ``Your
nephew!''
Scrooge seemed uneasy in his
mind; and answered briefly, ``Yes.''
Although they had but that moment
left the school behind them,
they were now in the busy thoroughfares
of a city, where shadowy passengers
passed and repassed; where shadowy
carts and coaches battle for
the way, and all the strife and
tumult of a real city were. It
was made plain enough, by the
dressing of the shops, that here
too it was Christmas time again;
but it was evening, and the streets
were lighted up.
The Ghost stopped at a certain
warehouse door, and asked Scrooge
if he knew it.
``Know it!'' said Scrooge. ``Was
I apprenticed here!''
They went in. At sight of an
old gentleman in a Welch wig,
sitting behind such a high desk,
that if he had been two inches
taller he must have knocked his
head against the ceiling, Scrooge
cried in great excitement:
``Why, it's old Fezziwig! Bless
his heart; it's Fezziwig alive
again!''
Old Fezziwig laid down his pen,
and looked up at the clock, which
pointed to the hour of seven.
He rubbed his hands; adjusted
his capacious waistcoat; laughed
all over himself, from his shows
to his organ of benevolence;
and called out in a comfortable,
oily, rich, fat, jovial voice:
``Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick!''
Scrooge's former self, now grown
a young man, came briskly in,
accompanied by his fellow-'prentice.
``Dick Wilkins, to be sure!''
said Scrooge to the Ghost. ``Bless
me, yes. There he is. He was
very much attached to me, was
Dick. Poor Dick! Dear, dear!''
``Yo ho, my boys!'' said Fezziwig.
``No more work to-night. Christmas
Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer!
Let's have the shutters up,''
cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp
clap of his hands, ``before a
man can say, Jack Robinson!''
You wouldn't believe how those
two fellows went at it! They
charged into the street with
the shutters -- one, two, three
-- had 'em up in their places
-- four, five, six -- barred
'em and pinned 'em -- seven,
eight, nine -- and came back
before you could have got to
twelve, panting like race-horses.
``Hilli-ho!'' cried old Fezziwig,
skipping down from the high desk,
with wonderful agility. ``Clear
away, my lads, and let's have
lots of room here! Hilli-ho,
Dick! Chirrup, Ebenezer!''
Clear away! There was nothing
they wouldn't have cleared away,
or couldn't have cleared away,
with old Fezziwig looking on.
It was done in a minute. Every
movable was packed off, as if
it were dismissed from public
life for evermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped
upon the fire; and the warehouse
was as snug, and warm, and dry,
and bright a ball-room, as you
would desire to see upon a winter's
night.
In came a fiddler with a music-book,
and went up to the lofty desk,
and made an orchestra of it,
and tuned like fifty stomach-aches.
In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast
substantial smile. In came the
three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming
and lovable. In came the six
young followers whose hearts
they broke. In came all the young
men and women employed in the
business. In came the housemaid,
with her cousin, the baker. In
came the cook, with her brother's
particular friend, the milkman.
In came the boy from over the
way, who was suspected of not
having board enough from his
master; trying to hide himself
behind the girl from next door
but one, who was proved to have
had her ears pulled by her Mistress.
In they all came, one after nother;
some shyly, some boldly, some
gracefully, some awkwardly, some
pushing, some pulling; in they
all came, anyhow and everyhow.
Away they all went, twenty couple
at once; hands half round and
back again the other way; down
the middle and up again; round
and round in various stages of
affectionate grouping; old top
couple always turning up in the
wrong place; new top couple starting
off again, as soon as they got
there; all top couples at last,
and not a bottom one to help
them. When this result was brought
about, old Fezziwig, clapping
his hands to stop the dance,
cried out, ``Well done!'' and
the fiddler plunged his hot face
into a pot of porter, especially
provided for that purpose. But
scorning rest, upon his reappearance,
he instantly began again, though
there were no dancers yet, as
if the other fiddler had been
carried home, exhausted, on a
shutter, and he were a bran-new
man resolved to beat him out
of sight, or perish.
There were more dances, and
there were forfeits, and more
dances, and there was cake, and
there was negus, and there was
a great piece of Cold Roast,
and there was a great piece of
Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies,
and plenty of beer. But the great
effect of the evening came after
the Roast and Boiled, when the
fiddler (an artful dog, mind!
The sort of man who knew his
business better than you or I
could have told it him!) struck
up ``Sir Roger de Coverley.''
Then old Fezziwig stood out to
dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top
couple, too; with a good stiff
piece of work cut out for them;
three or four and twenty pair
of partners; people who were
not to be trifled with; people
who would dance,
and had no notion of walking.
But if they had been twice as
many: ah, four times: old Fezziwig
would have been a match for them,
and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As
to her, she
was worthy to be his partner
in every sense of the term. If
that's not high praise, tell
me higher, and I'll use it. A
positive light appeared to issue
from Fezziwig's calves. They
shone in every part of the dance
like moons. You couldn't have
predicted, at any given time,
what would become of 'em next.
And when old Fezziwig and Mrs.
Fezziwig had gone all through
the dance; advance and retire,
hold hands with your partner,
bow and curtsey; corkscrew; thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig cut --
cut so deftly, that he appeared
to wink with his legs, and came
upon his feet again without a
stagger.
When the clock struck eleven,
this domestic ball broke up.
Mr and Mrs Fezziwig took their
stations, one on either side
of the door, and shaking hands
with every person individually
as he or she went out, wished
him or her a Merry Christmas.
When everybody had retired but
the two 'prentices, they did
the same to them; and thus the
cheerful voices died away, and
the lads were left to their beds;
which were under a counter in
the back-shop.
During the whole of this time,
Scrooge had acted like a man
out of his wits. His heart and
soul were in the scene, and with
his former self. He corroborated
everything, remembered everything,
enjoyed everything, and underwent
the strangest agitation. It was
not until now, when the bright
faces of his former self and
Dick were turned from them, that
he remembered the Ghost, and
became conscious that it was
looking full upon him, while
the light upon its head burnt
very clear.
``A small matter,'' said the
Ghost, ``to make these silly
folks so full of gratitude.''
``Small!'' echoed Scrooge.
The Spirit signed to him to
listen to the two apprentices,
who were pouring out their hearts
in praise of Fezziwig: and when
he had done so, said,
``Why! Is it not? He has spent
but a few pounds of your mortal
money: three or four perhaps.
Is that so much that he deserves
this praise?''
``It isn't that,'' said Scrooge,
heated by the remark, and speaking
unconsciously like his former,
not his latter, self. ``It isn't
that, Spirit. He has the power
to render us happy or unhappy;
to make our service light or
burdensome; a pleasure or a toil.
Say that his power lies in words
and looks; in things so slight
and insignificant that it is
impossible to add and count 'em
up: what then? The happiness
he gives, is quite as great as
if it cost a fortune.''
He felt the Spirit's glance,
and stopped.
``What is the matter?'' asked
the Ghost.
``Nothing particular,'' said
Scrooge.
``Something, I think?'' the
Ghost insisted.
``No,'' said Scrooge, ``No.
I should like to be able to say
a word or two to my clerk just
now! That's all.''
His former self turned down
the lamps as he gave utterance
to the wish; and Scrooge and
the Ghost again stood side by
side in the open air.
``My time grows short,'' observed
the Spirit. ``Quick!''
This was not addressed to Scrooge,
or to any one whom he could see,
but it produced an immediate
effect. For again Scrooge saw
himself. He was older now; a
man in the prime of life. His
face had not the harsh and rigid
lines of later years; but it
had begun to wear the signs of
care and avarice. There was an
eager, greedy, restless motion
in the eye, which showed the
passion that had taken root,
and where the shadow of the growing
tree would fall.
He was not alone, but sat by
the side of a fair young girl
in a mourning-dress: in whose
eyes there were tears, which
sparkled in the light that shone
out of the Ghost of Christmas
Past.
``It matters little,'' she said,
softly. ``To you, very little.
Another idol has displaced me;
and if it can cheer and comfort
you in time to come, as I would
have tried to do, I have no just
cause to grieve.''
``What Idol has displaced you?''
he rejoined.
``A golden one.''
``This is the even-handed dealing
of the world!'' he said. ``There
is nothing on which it is so
hard as poverty; and there is
nothing it professes to condemn
with such severity as the pursuit
of wealth!''
``You fear the world too much,''
she answered, gently. ``All your
other hopes have merged into
the hope of being beyond the
chance of its sordid reproach.
I have seen your nobler aspirations
fall off one by one, until the
master-passion, Gain, engrosses
you. Have I not?''
``What then?'' he retorted.
``Even if I have grown so much
wiser, what then? I am not changed
towards you.''
She shook her head.
``Am I?''
``Our contract is an old one.
It was made when we were both
poor and content to be so, until,
in good season, we could improve
our worldly fortune by our patient
industry. You are changed.
When it was made, you were another
man.''
``I was a boy,'' he said impatiently.
``Your own feeling tells you
that you were not what you are,''
she returned. ``I am. That which
promised happiness when we were
one in heart, is fraught with
misery now that we are two. How
often and how keenly I have thought
of this, I will not say. It is
enough that I have thought
of it, and can release you.''
``Have I ever sought release?''
``In words. No. Never.''
``In what, then?''
``In a changed nature; in an
altered spirit; in another atmosphere
of life; another Hope as its
great end. In everything that
made my love of any worth or
value in your sight. If this
had never been between us,''
said the girl, looking mildly,
but with steadiness, upon him;
``tell me, would you seek me
out and try to win me now? Ah,
no!''
He seemed to yield to the justice
of this supposition, in spite
of himself. But he said with
a struggle, ``You think not.''
``I would gladly think otherwise
if I could,'' she answered, ``Heaven
knows! When I have
learned a Truth like this, I
know how strong and irresistible
it must be. But if you were free
to-day, to-morrow, yesterday,
can even I believe that you would
choose a dowerless girl -- you
who, in your very confidence
with her, weigh everything by
Gain: or, choosing her, if for
a moment you were false enough
to your one guiding principle
to do so, do I not know that
your repentance and regret would
surely follow? I do; and I release
you. With a full heart, for the
love of him you once were.''
He was about to speak; but with
her head turned from him, she
resumed.
``You may -- the memory of what
is past half makes me hope you
will -- have pain in this. A
very, very brief time, and you
will dismiss the recollection
of it, gladly, as an unprofitable
dream, from which it happened
well that you awoke. May you
be happy in the life you have
chosen!''
She left him, and they parted.
``Spirit!'' said Scrooge, ``show
me no more! Conduct me home.
Why do you delight to torture
me?''
``One shadow more!'' exclaimed
the Ghost.
``No more!'' cried Scrooge.
``No more. I don't wish to see
it. Show me no more!''
But the relentless Ghost pinioned
him in both his arms, and forced
him to observe what happened
next.
They were in another scene and
place; a room, not very large
or handsome, but full of comfort.
Near to the winter fire sat a
beautiful young girl, so like
that last that Scrooge believed
it was the same, until he saw her,
now a comely matron, sitting
opposite her daughter. The noise
in this room was perfectly tumultuous,
for there were more children
there, than Scrooge in his agitated
state of mind could count; and,
unlike the celebrated herd in
the poem, they were not forty
children conducting themselves
like one, but every child was
conducting itself like forty.
The consequences were uproarious
beyond belief; but no one seemed
to care; on the contrary, the
mother and daughter laughed heartily,
and enjoyed it very much; and
the latter, soon beginning to
mingle in the sports, got pillaged
by the young brigands most ruthlessly.
What would I not have given to
one of them! Though I never could
have been so rude, no, no! I
wouldn't for the wealth of all
the world have crushed that braided
hair, and torn it down; and for
the precious little shoe, I wouldn't
have plucked it off, God bless
my soul! to save my life. As
to measuring her waist in sport,
as they did, bold young brood,
I couldn't have done it; I should
have expected my arm to have
grown round it for a punishment,
and never come straight again.
And yet I should have dearly
liked, I own, to have touched
her lips; to have questioned
her, that she might have opened
them; to have looked upon the
lashes of her downcast eyes,
and never raised a blush; to
have let loose waves of hair,
an inch of which would be a keepsake
beyond price: in short, I should
have liked, I do confess, to
have had the lightest licence
of a child, and yet to have been
man enough to know its value.
But now a knocking at the door
was heard, and such a rush immediately
ensued that she with laughing
face and plundered dress was
borne towards it the centre of
a flushed and boisterous group,
just in time to greet the father,
who came home attended by a man
laden with Christmas toys and
presents. Then the shouting and
the struggling, and the onslaught
that was made on the defenceless
porter! The scaling him, with
chairs for ladders, to dive into
his pockets, despoil him of brown-paper
parcels, hold on tight by his
cravat, hug him round the neck,
pommel his back, and kick his
legs in irrepressible affection!
The shouts of wonder and delight
with which the development of
every package was received! The
terrible announcement that the
baby had been taken in the act
of putting a doll's frying-pan
into his mouth, and was more
than suspected of having swallowed
a fictitious turkey, glued on
a wooden platter! The immense
relief of finding this a false
alarm! The joy, and gratitude,
and ecstasy! They are all indescribable
alike. It is enough that by degrees
the children and their emotions
got out of the parlour, and by
one stair at a time, up to the
top of the house; where they
went to bed, and so subsided.
And now Scrooge looked on more
attentively than ever, when the
master of the house, having his
daughter leaning fondly on him,
sat down with her and her mother
at his own fireside; and when
he thought that such another
creature, quite as graceful and
as full of promise, might have
called him father, and been a
spring-time in the haggard winter
of his life, his sight grew very
dim indeed.
``Belle,'' said the husband,
turning to his wife with a smile,
``I saw an old friend of yours
this afternoon.''
``Who was it?''
``Guess!''
``How can I? Tut, don't I know.''
she added in the same breath,
laughing as he laughed. ``Mr
Scrooge.''
``Mr Scrooge it was. I passed
his office window; and as it
was not shut up, and he had a
candle inside, I could scarcely
help seeing him. His partner
lies upon the point of death,
I hear; and there he sat alone.
Quite alone in the world, I do
believe.''
``Spirit!'' said Scrooge in
a broken voice, ``remove me from
this place.''
``I told you these were shadows
of the things that have been,''
said the Ghost. ``That they are
what they are, do not blame me!''
``Remove me!'' Scrooge exclaimed,
``I cannot bear it!''
He turned upon the Ghost, and
seeing that it looked upon him
with a face, in which in some
strange way there were fragments
of all the faces it had shown
him, wrestled with it.
``Leave me! Take me back. Haunt
me no longer!''
In the struggle, if that can
be called a struggle in which
the Ghost with no visible resistance
on its own part was undisturbed
by any effort of its adversary,
Scrooge observed that its light
was burning high and bright;
and dimly connecting that with
its influence over him, he seized
the extinguisher-cap, and by
a sudden action pressed it down
upon its head.
The Spirit dropped beneath it,
so that the extinguisher covered
its whole form; but though Scrooge
pressed it down with all his
force, he could not hide the
light, which streamed from under
it, in an unbroken flood upon
the ground.
He was conscious of being exhausted,
and overcome by an irresistible
drowsiness; and, further, of
being in his own bedroom. He
gave the cap a parting squeeze,
in which his hand relaxed; and
had barely time to reel to bed,
before he sank into a heavy sleep. |