recollect the way?”
“Remember it,” cried Scrooge with fervor, thankful to be away from that frightful deathbed and a past he could not change. “I could walk it blindfolded.”
As they walked along, Scrooge recognized 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 toward 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.
The jocund travelers 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 eyes 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 crossroads 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? “They’ve all gone off on holiday,” he remarked.
“Not all of them. The school is not quite deserted,” said the ghost. “A solitary child, neglected by his family and friends, is left there still.”
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 overrun 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 savor 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 benches and desks. At one of these, a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire, and Scrooge sat down upon a bench, 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 paneling, 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 place where my father sent me that day.”
The phantom pointed to a foggy window, left open a crack so that the voices outside carried within. Beyond the window, standing not in the schoolyard, but the yard of his home was Scrooge’s father and sister. Scrooge didn’t know how such a thing was possible and, at this point, cared little, for it seemed less a feat than the time travel he was experiencing or less incredible than the presence of vampires in England or anywhere on earth, for that matter.
“But why cannot we not go to fetch Ebenezer on our way to church?” his twin sister begged.
She was a blooming schoolgirl, now, with flowing brown hair tied with a blue ribbon beneath her white bonnet, her beauty remarkable for her age. Upon her face, Scrooge could already see the young woman she would become.
“Get into the carriage and do not question my authority,” Mr. Scrooge said harshly. “I will not speak of this again, child!”
“But, Father, why?” cried Fan, tears filling her eyes, eyes like her mother’s . . . like
“Remember it,” cried Scrooge with fervor, thankful to be away from that frightful deathbed and a past he could not change. “I could walk it blindfolded.”
As they walked along, Scrooge recognized 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 toward 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.
The jocund travelers 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 eyes 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 crossroads 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? “They’ve all gone off on holiday,” he remarked.
“Not all of them. The school is not quite deserted,” said the ghost. “A solitary child, neglected by his family and friends, is left there still.”
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 overrun 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 savor 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 benches and desks. At one of these, a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire, and Scrooge sat down upon a bench, 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 paneling, 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 place where my father sent me that day.”
The phantom pointed to a foggy window, left open a crack so that the voices outside carried within. Beyond the window, standing not in the schoolyard, but the yard of his home was Scrooge’s father and sister. Scrooge didn’t know how such a thing was possible and, at this point, cared little, for it seemed less a feat than the time travel he was experiencing or less incredible than the presence of vampires in England or anywhere on earth, for that matter.
“But why cannot we not go to fetch Ebenezer on our way to church?” his twin sister begged.
She was a blooming schoolgirl, now, with flowing brown hair tied with a blue ribbon beneath her white bonnet, her beauty remarkable for her age. Upon her face, Scrooge could already see the young woman she would become.
“Get into the carriage and do not question my authority,” Mr. Scrooge said harshly. “I will not speak of this again, child!”
“But, Father, why?” cried Fan, tears filling her eyes, eyes like her mother’s . . . like
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