‘I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To
Come.’ said Scrooge.
The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its
hand.
‘You are about to show me shadows of the things that
have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,’
Scrooge pursued. ‘Is that so, Spirit.’
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The upper portion of the garment was contracted for
an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head.
That was the only answer he received.
Although well used to ghostly company by this time,
Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs
trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly
stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit pauses a
moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time
to recover.
But Scrooge was all the worse for this.
It thrilled him
with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the
dusky shroud, there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon
him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost,
could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap
of black.
‘Ghost of the Future.’ he exclaimed,’ I fear you more
than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose
is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man
from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and
do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me.’
It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight
before them.
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‘Lead on.’ said Scrooge. ‘Lead on. The night is waning
fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on,
Spirit.’
The Phantom moved away as it had come towards
him. Scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which
bore him up, he thought, and carried him along.
They scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city
rather seemed to spring up about them, and encompass
them of its own act. But there they were, in the heart of
it; on Change, amongst the merchants; who hurried up
and down, and chinked the money in their pockets, and
conversed in groups, and looked at their watches, and
trifled thoughtfully with their great gold seals; and so
forth, as Scrooge had seen them often.
The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of business
men. Observing that the hand was pointed to them,
Scrooge advanced to listen to their talk.
‘No,’ said a great fat man with a monstrous chin,’ I
don’t know much about it, either way. I only know he’s
dead.’
‘When did he die.’ inquired another.
‘Last night, I believe.’
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‘Why, what was the matter with him.’ asked a third,
taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuffbox.
‘I thought he’d never die.’
‘God knows,’ said the first, with a yawn.
‘What has he done with his money.’ asked a red-faced
gentleman with a pendulous excrescence on the end of his
nose, that shook like the gills of a turkey-cock.
‘I haven’t heard,’ said the man with the large chin,
yawning again. ‘Left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn’t
left it to me. That’s all I know.’
This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.
‘It’s likely to be a very cheap funeral,’ said the same
speaker;’ for upon my life I don’t know of anybody to go
to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer.’
‘I don’t mind going if a lunch is provided,’ observed
the gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. ‘But I
must be fed, if I make one.’
Another laugh.
‘Well, I am the most disinterested among you, after all,’
said the first speaker,’ for I never wear black gloves, and I
never eat lunch. But I’ll offer to go, if anybody else will.
When I come to think of it, I’m not at all sure that I
wasn’t his most particular friend; for we used to stop and
speak whenever we met. Bye, bye.’
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Speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with
other groups. Scrooge knew the men, and looked towards
the Spirit for an explanation.
The Phantom glided on into a street. Its finger pointed
to two persons meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinking
that the explanation might lie here.
He knew these men, also, perfectly. They were men of
aye business: very wealthy, and of great importance. He
had made a point always of standing well in their esteem:
in a business point of view, that is; strictly in a business
point of view.
‘How are you.’ said one.
‘How are you.’ returned the other.
‘Well.’ said the first. ‘Old Scratch has got his own at
last, hey.’
‘So I am told,’ returned the second. ‘Cold, isn’t it.’
‘Seasonable for Christmas time. You’re not a skater, I
suppose.’
‘No. No. Something else to think of. Good morning.’
Not another word. That was their meeting, their
conversation, and their parting.
Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the
Spirit should attach importance to conversations
apparently so trivial; but feeling assured that they must
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have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what
it was likely to be. They could scarcely be supposed to
have any bearing on the death of Jacob, his old partner, for
that was Past, and this Ghost’s province was the Future.
Nor could he think of any one immediately connected
with himself, to whom he could apply them. But nothing
doubting that to whomsoever they applied they had some
latent moral for his own improvement, he resolved to
treasure up every word he heard, and everything he saw;
and especially to observe the shadow of himself when it
appeared. For he had an expectation that the conduct of
his future self would give him the clue he missed, and
would render the solution of these riddles easy.
He looked about in that very place for his own image;
but another man stood in his accustomed corner, and
though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for
being there, he saw no likeness of himself among the
multitudes that poured in through the Porch. It gave him
little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his
mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his
new-born resolutions carried out in this.
Quiet and dark, beside him stood the Phantom, with its
outstretched hand. When he roused himself from his
thoughtful quest, he fancied from the turn of the hand,
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and its situation in reference to himself, that the Unseen
Eyes were looking at him keenly. It made him shudder,
and feel very cold.
They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part
of the town, where Scrooge had never penetrated before,
although he recognised its situation, and its bad repute.
The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses
wretched; the people half-naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly.
Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged
their offences of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the
straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with
crime, with filth, and misery.
Far in this den of infamous resort, there was a lowbrowed,
beetling shop, below a pent-house roof, where
iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal, were
bought. Upon the floor within, were piled up heaps of
rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and
refuse iron of all kinds. Secrets that few would like to
scrutinise were bred and hidden in mountains of unseemly
rags, masses of corrupted fat, and sepulchres of bones.
Sitting in among the wares he dealt in, by a charcoal stove,
made of old bricks, was a grey-haired rascal, nearly seventy
years of age; who had screened himself from the cold air
without, by a frousy curtaining of miscellaneous tatters,
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hung upon a line; and smoked his pipe in all the luxury of
calm retirement.
Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence of
this man, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into
the shop. But she had scarcely entered, when another
woman, similarly laden, came in too; and she was closely
followed by a man in faded black, who was no less startled
by the sight of them, than they had been upon the
recognition of each other. After a short period of blank
astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe had
joined them, they all three burst into a laugh.
‘Let the charwoman alone to be the first.’ cried she
who had entered first. ‘Let the laundress alone to be the
second; and let the undertaker’s man alone to be the third.
Look here, old Joe, here’s a chance. If we haven’t all three
met here without meaning it.’
‘You couldn’t have met in a better place,’ said old Joe,
removing his pipe from his mouth. ‘Come into the
parlour. You were made free of it long ago, you know;
and the other two an’t strangers. Stop till I shut the door
of the shop. Ah. How it skreeks. There an’t such a rusty
bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I believe; and
I’m sure there’s no such old bones here, as mine. Ha, ha.
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We’re all suitable to our calling, we’re well matched.
Come into the parlour. Come into the parlour.’
The parlour was the space behind the screen of rags.
The old man raked the fire together with an old stair-rod,
and having trimmed his smoky lamp (for it was night),
with the stem of his pipe, put it in his mouth again.
While he did this, the woman who had already spoken
threw her bundle on the floor, and sat down in a flaunting
manner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, and
looking with a bold defiance at the other two.
‘What odds then. What odds, Mrs Dilber.’ said the
woman. ‘Every person has a right to take care of
themselves. He always did.’
‘That’s true, indeed.’ said the laundress. ‘No man more
so.’
‘Why then, don’t stand staring as if you was afraid,
woman; who’s the wiser. We’re not going to pick holes in
each other’s coats, I suppose.’
‘No, indeed.’ said Mrs Dilber and the man together.
‘We should hope not.’
‘Very well, then.’ cried the woman. ‘That’s enough.
Who’s the worse for the loss of a few things like these.
Not a dead man, I suppose.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Mrs Dilber, laughing.
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‘If he wanted to keep them after he was dead, a wicked
old screw,’ pursued the woman,’ why wasn’t he natural in
his lifetime. If he had been, he’d have had somebody to
look after him when he was struck with Death, instead of
lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself.’
‘It’s the truest word that ever was spoke,’ said Mrs
Dilber. ‘It’s a judgment on him.’
‘I wish it was a little heavier judgment,’ replied the
woman;’ and it should have been, you may depend upon
it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open
that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it.
Speak out plain. I’m not afraid to be the first, nor afraid
for them to see it. We know pretty well that we were
helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It’s no
sin. Open the bundle, Joe.’
But the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this;
and the man in faded black, mounting the breach first,
produced his plunder. It was not extensive. A seal or two,
a pencil-case, a pair of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of no
great value, were all. They were severally examined and
appraised by old Joe, who chalked the sums he was
disposed to give for each, upon the wall, and added them
up into a total when he found there was nothing more to
come.
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‘That’s your account,’ said Joe,’ and I wouldn’t give
another sixpence, if I was to be boiled for not doing it.
Who’s next.’
Mrs Dilber was next. Sheets and towels, a little wearing
apparel, two old-fashioned silver teaspoons, a pair of
sugar-tongs, and a few boots. Her account was stated on
the wall in the same manner.
‘I always give too much to ladies. It’s a weakness of
mine, and that’s the way I ruin myself,’ said old Joe.
‘That’s your account. If you asked me for another penny,
and made it an open question, I’d repent of being so
liberal and knock off half-a-crown.’
‘And now undo my bundle, Joe,’ said the first woman.
Joe went down on his knees for the greater
convenience of opening it, and having unfastened a great
many knots, dragged out a large and heavy roll of some
dark stuff.
‘What do you call this.’ said Joe. ‘Bed-curtains.’
‘Ah.’ returned the woman, laughing and leaning
forward on her crossed arms. ‘Bed-curtains.’
‘You don’t mean to say you took them down, rings
and all, with him lying there.’ said Joe.
‘Yes I do,’ replied the woman. ‘Why not.’
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‘You were born to make your fortune,’ said Joe,’ and
you’ll certainly do it.’
‘I certainly shan’t hold my hand, when I can get
anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a
man as he was, I promise you, Joe,’ returned the woman
coolly. ‘Don’t drop that oil upon the blankets, now.’
‘His blankets.’ asked Joe.
‘Whose else’s do you think.’ replied the woman. ‘He
isn’t likely to take cold without them, I dare say.’
‘I hope he didn’t die of any thing catching. Eh.’ said
old Joe, stopping in his work, and looking up.
‘Don’t you be afraid of that,’ returned the woman. ‘I
an’t so fond of his company that I’d loiter about him for
such things, if he did. Ah. you may look through that shirt
till your eyes ache; but you won’t find a hole in it, nor a
threadbare place. It’s the best he had, and a fine one too.
They’d have wasted it, if it hadn’t been for me.’
‘What do you call wasting of it.’ asked old Joe.
‘Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure,’ replied
the woman with a laugh. ‘Somebody was fool enough to
do it, but I took it off again. If calico an’t good enough for
such a purpose, it isn’t good enough for anything. It’s
quite as becoming to the body. He can’t look uglier than
he did in that one.’
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Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat
grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by
the old man’s lamp, he viewed them with a detestation
and disgust, which could hardly have been greater, though
the demons, marketing the corpse itself.
‘Ha, ha.’ laughed the same woman, when old Joe,
producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their
several gains upon the ground. ‘This is the end of it, you
see. He frightened every one away from him when he was
alive, to profit us when he was dead. Ha, ha, ha.’
‘Spirit.’ said Scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. ‘I
see, I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my
own. My life tends that way, now. Merciful Heaven, what
is this.’
He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and
now he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: on
which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay a something
covered up, which, though it was dumb, announced itself
in awful language.
The room was very dark, too dark to be observed with
any accuracy, though Scrooge glanced round it in
obedience to a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind
of room it was. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell
straight upon the bed; and on it, plundered and bereft,
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unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this
man.
Scrooge glanced towards the Phantom. Its steady hand
was pointed to the head. The cover was so carelessly
adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a
finger upon Scrooge’s part, would have disclosed the face.
He thought of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and
longed to do it; but had no more power to withdraw the
veil than to dismiss the spectre at his side.
Oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, set up thine altar
here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy
command: for this is thy dominion. But of the loved,
revered, and honoured head, thou canst not turn one hair
to thy dread purposes, or make one feature odious. It is
not that the hand is heavy and will fall down when
released; it is not that the heart and pulse are still; but that
the hand was open, generous, and true; the heart brave,
warm, and tender; and the pulse a man’s. Strike, Shadow,
strike. And see his good deeds springing from the wound,
to sow the world with life immortal.
No voice pronounced these words in Scrooge’s ears,
and yet he heard them when he looked upon the bed. He
thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would
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be his foremost thoughts. Avarice, hard-dealing, griping
cares. They have brought him to a rich end, truly.
He lay, in the dark empty house, with not a man, a
woman, or a child, to say that he was kind to me in this or
that, and for the memory of one kind word I will be kind
to him. A cat was tearing at the door, and there was a
sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearth-stone. What
they wanted in the room of death, and why they were so
restless and disturbed, Scrooge did not dare to think.
‘Spirit.’ he said,’ this is a fearful place. In leaving it, I
shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go.’
Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the
head.
‘I understand you,’ Scrooge returned,’ and I would do
it, if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have not
the power.’
Again it seemed to look upon him.
‘If there is any person in the town, who feels emotion
caused by this man’s death,’ said Scrooge quite agonised,
‘show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech you.’
The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a
moment, like a wing; and withdrawing it, revealed a room
by daylight, where a mother and her children were.
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She was expecting some one, and with anxious
eagerness; for she walked up and down the room; started
at every sound; looked out from the window; glanced at
the clock; tried, but in vain, to work with her needle; and
could hardly bear the voices of the children in their play.
At length the long-expected knock was heard. She
hurried to the door, and met her husband; a man whose
face was careworn and depressed, though he was young.
There was a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of
serious delight of which he felt ashamed, and which he
struggled to repress.
He sat down to the dinner that had been boarding for
him by the fire; and when she asked him faintly what
news (which was not until after a long silence), he
appeared embarrassed how to answer.
‘Is it good.’ she said, ‘or bad?’ — to help him.
‘Bad,’ he answered.
‘We are quite ruined.’
‘No. There is hope yet, Caroline.’
‘If he relents,’ she said, amazed, ‘there is. Nothing is
past hope, if such a miracle has happened.’
‘He is past relenting,’ said her husband. ‘He is dead.’
She was a mild and patient creature if her face spoke
truth; but she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she
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said so, with clasped hands. She prayed forgiveness the
next moment, and was sorry; but the first was the emotion
of her heart.
‘What the half-drunken woman whom I told you of
last night, said to me, when I tried to see him and obtain a
week’s delay; and what I thought was a mere excuse to
avoid me; turns out to have been quite true. He was not
only very ill, but dying, then.’
‘To whom will our debt be transferred.’
‘I don’t know. But before that time we shall be ready
with the money; and even though we were not, it would
be a bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in
his successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts,
Caroline.’
Yes. Soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter.
The children’s faces, hushed and clustered round to hear
what they so little understood, were brighter; and it was a
happier house for this man’s death. The only emotion that
the Ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one
of pleasure.
‘Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,’
said Scrooge;’ or that dark chamber, Spirit, which we left
just now, will be for ever present to me.’
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The Ghost conducted him through several streets
familiar to his feet; and as they went along, Scrooge
looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he
to be seen. They entered poor Bob Cratchit’s house; the
dwelling he had visited before; and found the mother and
the children seated round the fire.
Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as
still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter,
who had a book before him. The mother and her
daughters were engaged in sewing. But surely they were
very quiet.
‘And he took a child, and set him in the midst of
them.’
Where had Scrooge heard those words. He had not
dreamed them. The boy must have read them out, as he
and the Spirit crossed the threshold. Why did he not go
on.
The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her
hand up to her face.
‘The colour hurts my eyes,’ she said.
The colour. Ah, poor Tiny Tim.
‘They’re better now again,’ said Cratchit’s wife. ‘It
makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn’t show
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weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the
world. It must be near his time.’
‘Past it rather,’ Peter answered, shutting up his book.
‘But I think he has walked a little slower than he used,
these few last evenings, mother.’
They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a
steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once:
‘I have known him walk with — I have known him
walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.’
‘And so have I,’ cried Peter. ‘Often.’
‘And so have I,’ exclaimed another. So had all.
‘But he was very light to carry,’ she resumed, intent
upon her work,’ and his father loved him so, that it was
no trouble: no trouble. And there is your father at the
door.’
She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his
comforter — he had need of it, poor fellow — came in.
His tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried
who should help him to it most. Then the two young
Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child a little
cheek, against his face, as if they said,’ Don’t mind it,
father. Don’t be grieved.’
Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly
to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table,
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and praised the industry and speed of Mrs Cratchit and the
girls. They would be done long before Sunday, he said.
‘Sunday. You went to-day, then, Robert.’ said his wife.
‘Yes, my dear,’ returned Bob. ‘I wish you could have
gone. It would have done you good to see how green a
place it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I
would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child.’ cried
Bob. ‘My little child.’
He broke down all at once. He couldn’t help it. If he
could have helped it, he and his child would have been
farther apart perhaps than they were.
He left the room, and went up-stairs into the room
above, which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with
Christmas. There was a chair set close beside the child,
and there were signs of some one having been there,
lately. Poor Bob sat down in it, and when he had thought
a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face. He
was reconciled to what had happened, and went down
again quite happy.
They drew about the fire, and talked; the girls and
mother working still. Bob told them of the extraordinary
kindness of Mr Scrooge’s nephew, whom he had scarcely
seen but once, and who, meeting him in the street that
day, and seeing that he looked a little -’ just a little down
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you know,’ said Bob, inquired what had happened to
distress him. ‘On which,’ said Bob,’ for he is the
pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, I told him.
‘I am heartily sorry for it, Mr Cratchit,’ he said,’ and
heartily sorry for your good wife.’ By the bye, how he
ever knew that, I don’t know.’
‘Knew what, my dear.’
‘Why, that you were a good wife,’ replied Bob.
‘Everybody knows that.’ said Peter.
‘Very well observed, my boy.’ cried Bob. ‘I hope they
do. ‘Heartily sorry,’ he said,’ for your good wife. If I can
be of service to you in any way,’ he said, giving me his
card,’ that’s where I live. Pray come to me.’ Now, it
wasn’t,’ cried Bob,’ for the sake of anything he might be
able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this
was quite delightful. It really seemed as if he had known
our Tiny Tim, and felt with us.’
‘I’m sure he’s a good soul.’ said Mrs Cratchit.
‘You would be surer of it, my dear,’ returned Bob,’ if
you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn’t be at all surprised -
mark what I say. — if he got Peter a better situation.’
‘Only hear that, Peter,’ said Mrs Cratchit.
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‘And then,’ cried one of the girls,’ Peter will be
keeping company with some one, and setting up for
himself.’
‘Get along with you.’ retorted Peter, grinning.
‘It’s just as likely as not,’ said Bob,’ one of these days;
though there’s plenty of time for that, my dear. But
however and when ever we part from one another, I am
sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim — shall we
— or this first parting that there was among us.’
‘Never, father.’ cried they all.
‘And I know,’ said Bob,’ I know, my dears, that when
we recollect how patient and how mild he was; although
he was a little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily
among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it.’
‘No, never, father.’ they all cried again.
‘I am very happy,’ said little Bob,’ I am very happy.’
Mrs Cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the
two young Cratchits kissed him, and Peter and himself
shook hands. Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence was
from God.
‘Spectre,’ said Scrooge,’ something informs me that our
parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not
how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying
dead.’
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The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him,
as before — though at a different time, he thought:
indeed, there seemed no order in these latter visions, save
that they were in the Future — into the resorts of business
men, but showed him not himself. Indeed, the Spirit did
not stay for anything, but went straight on, as to the end
just now desired, until besought by Scrooge to tarry for a
moment.
‘This courts,’ said Scrooge,’ through which we hurry
now, is where my place of occupation is, and has been for
a length of time. I see the house. Let me behold what I
shall be, in days to come.’
The Spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere.
‘The house is yonder,’ Scrooge exclaimed. ‘Why do
you point away.’
The inexorable finger underwent no change.
Scrooge hastened to the window of his office, and
looked in. It was an office still, but not his. The furniture
was not the same, and the figure in the chair was not
himself. The Phantom pointed as before.
He joined it once again, and wondering why and
whither he had gone, accompanied it until they reached
an iron gate. He paused to look round before entering.
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A churchyard. Here, then, the wretched man whose
name he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. It
was a worthy place. Walled in by houses; overrun by grass
and weeds, the growth of vegetation’s death, not life;
choked up with too much burying; fat with repleted
appetite. A worthy place.
The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down
to One. He advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom
was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new
meaning in its solemn shape.
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