occupied the place of years in his remembrance.
On the last night of his restraint, Scrooge watched as he was awakened by hearing his own name spoken in a whisper. The boy started up in bed, and, putting out his arms in the dark, said, “Is that you, Fan?”
There was no immediate answer, but presently he heard his name again, in a tone so very mysterious and awful, that he thought he had gone into a fit.
“The keyhole, you silly boy,” Scrooge urged his younger self.
The boy groped his way to the door, and, putting his own lips to the keyhole, whispered, “Is that you, Fanny, dear?”
“Yes, my own precious Ebenezer,” she replied. “Be as soft as a mouse, or the cat’ll hear us.”
He understood this to mean Mrs. Grottweil, and knew that he must be careful and quiet; her room being close by.
“How are you, dear Fanny? Are you very angry with me?”
Scrooge could hear his sister crying softly on her side of the keyhole, and he turned to the ghost. “Must we be here, still? It is no longer even Christmas Eve.”
“The event began on Christmas Eve and becomes a corner-stone to who you have become, Ebenezer,” responded the spirit.
With a sigh, Scrooge turned back to the children.
“I’m not so very angry with you, brother,” said Fan. “Not very. I only wish you had not angered Father so again, is all.”
“What is going to be done with me, Fan, dear? Do you know?”
“School. Near London,” was Fan’s answer. The boy was obliged to get her to repeat it, for she spoke it the first time quite down his throat in consequence of him having forgotten to take his mouth away from the keyhole and put his ear there; and, though her words tickled him a good deal, he didn’t hear them.
“School? Perhaps that would be better, for both of us,” he said cheerfully for a lad who had been near beaten to death by his father. “Perhaps Father will be kinder to you, then.”
“No, no, this is not good, Ebenezer. How will I be able to protect you then?”
“You won’t have to protect me from Father, there.”
“It is not Father I worry about. It’s them .”
“Them who? ” the boy asked.
Scrooge turned to the ghost. “Fan knew? She knew what Mrs. Grottweil was? What Mrs. Wahltraud . . . or whatever her name is, was trying to do? But how is that . . . was it possible? She was a newborn babe that day, the same as I.”
The ghost said nothing.
“When, Fan? When shall I go?” asked the young Ebenezer.
“Tomorrow.”
“Is that the reason why Mrs. Grottweil took the clothes out of my drawers?”
“Yes,” said Fan.
“Shan’t I see you before I go?”
“Yes,” she said. “In the morning.”
Then Fan fitted her mouth close to the keyhole, and spoke these words through it with as much feeling and earnestness as a keyhole has ever been the means of communicating, shooting in each broken little sentence in a convulsive little burst of its own.
“Ebenezer, dear, please promise me you will take care. Please promise me you will be the good boy I know you can be and always see to those who are less fortunate. Fight them. You must fight them!”
“What are you talking about, Fan? Fight who?”
“The vampires,” she whispered.
Scrooge, who had been leaning over the boy to hear every word, stood abruptly and turned to the spirit. “I do not recall her saying that. Not in all these years,” he murmured.
“Oh, Fan. I’m frightened. Please don’t talk of such things anymore. Please write to me at school. Promise me.”
The kind soul promised, and the two kissed the keyhole with the greatest affection. The young Ebenezer patted it with his hand as if it had been her honest face—and parted.
16
W ith the blink of Scrooge’s eye, then, he was no longer in his childhood home, he and the ghost, but on a country road.
“Wait,” Scrooge begged, looking back over his shoulder, the hem of his gown tangling around his bony ankles.
The spirit looked up the road they now followed. “You
On the last night of his restraint, Scrooge watched as he was awakened by hearing his own name spoken in a whisper. The boy started up in bed, and, putting out his arms in the dark, said, “Is that you, Fan?”
There was no immediate answer, but presently he heard his name again, in a tone so very mysterious and awful, that he thought he had gone into a fit.
“The keyhole, you silly boy,” Scrooge urged his younger self.
The boy groped his way to the door, and, putting his own lips to the keyhole, whispered, “Is that you, Fanny, dear?”
“Yes, my own precious Ebenezer,” she replied. “Be as soft as a mouse, or the cat’ll hear us.”
He understood this to mean Mrs. Grottweil, and knew that he must be careful and quiet; her room being close by.
“How are you, dear Fanny? Are you very angry with me?”
Scrooge could hear his sister crying softly on her side of the keyhole, and he turned to the ghost. “Must we be here, still? It is no longer even Christmas Eve.”
“The event began on Christmas Eve and becomes a corner-stone to who you have become, Ebenezer,” responded the spirit.
With a sigh, Scrooge turned back to the children.
“I’m not so very angry with you, brother,” said Fan. “Not very. I only wish you had not angered Father so again, is all.”
“What is going to be done with me, Fan, dear? Do you know?”
“School. Near London,” was Fan’s answer. The boy was obliged to get her to repeat it, for she spoke it the first time quite down his throat in consequence of him having forgotten to take his mouth away from the keyhole and put his ear there; and, though her words tickled him a good deal, he didn’t hear them.
“School? Perhaps that would be better, for both of us,” he said cheerfully for a lad who had been near beaten to death by his father. “Perhaps Father will be kinder to you, then.”
“No, no, this is not good, Ebenezer. How will I be able to protect you then?”
“You won’t have to protect me from Father, there.”
“It is not Father I worry about. It’s them .”
“Them who? ” the boy asked.
Scrooge turned to the ghost. “Fan knew? She knew what Mrs. Grottweil was? What Mrs. Wahltraud . . . or whatever her name is, was trying to do? But how is that . . . was it possible? She was a newborn babe that day, the same as I.”
The ghost said nothing.
“When, Fan? When shall I go?” asked the young Ebenezer.
“Tomorrow.”
“Is that the reason why Mrs. Grottweil took the clothes out of my drawers?”
“Yes,” said Fan.
“Shan’t I see you before I go?”
“Yes,” she said. “In the morning.”
Then Fan fitted her mouth close to the keyhole, and spoke these words through it with as much feeling and earnestness as a keyhole has ever been the means of communicating, shooting in each broken little sentence in a convulsive little burst of its own.
“Ebenezer, dear, please promise me you will take care. Please promise me you will be the good boy I know you can be and always see to those who are less fortunate. Fight them. You must fight them!”
“What are you talking about, Fan? Fight who?”
“The vampires,” she whispered.
Scrooge, who had been leaning over the boy to hear every word, stood abruptly and turned to the spirit. “I do not recall her saying that. Not in all these years,” he murmured.
“Oh, Fan. I’m frightened. Please don’t talk of such things anymore. Please write to me at school. Promise me.”
The kind soul promised, and the two kissed the keyhole with the greatest affection. The young Ebenezer patted it with his hand as if it had been her honest face—and parted.
16
W ith the blink of Scrooge’s eye, then, he was no longer in his childhood home, he and the ghost, but on a country road.
“Wait,” Scrooge begged, looking back over his shoulder, the hem of his gown tangling around his bony ankles.
The spirit looked up the road they now followed. “You
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