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Ebenezer Scrooge stretched his legs toward the fire and commenced the pleasurable activity of toasting his toes on the hearth. He let out a sigh of great contentment, his eyes drooping closed. Near him, there was an indistinct rustle of movement and sound, a slight disturbance of patterns of light. Scrooge roused himself and sat up straighter, looking around him with interest but no trace of fear.
“A blessed Christmas Eve to you, Jacob and Robert,” Scrooge said to the not-quite-empty air. There were times, like this one, when he was more than positive that his old partners were with him in slightly more than spirit. It had been five years since their timely visit had saved him, not only from an eternity of damnation, but from a lifetime of loneliness. He had once begged their spectral selves for words of comfort. He thought--he hoped--that they took some small comfort (if there was comfort to be had in the dark place in which they found themselves) from the great happiness they had ultimately brought to him, and through him to many others.
“Another year of Christmas dawning on the horizon. I thank you for it, again.”
There may be have been a subtle rustle of acquiescence near the fireplace, then the quiet seemed to settle comfortably again.
Tomorrow there would be much to do. Fred and Clara and little Frederick would collect him for church, and afterward they would share the fellowship of friends in Fred’s big, noisy drawing room. Tomorrow evening, this room would be the largest source of light and laughter in the Old City--at least, if this year was anything like last year. The pantry was overflowing with food, and the brass and woodwork had been polished so that you could see your reflection--or the reflection of anyone else who might choose to visit, thought Scrooge wryly. He wasn’t expecting anyone tonight; Bob had closed the office hours ago and sent the dutiful bookkeepers off full of punch and pie and thoughts of their own hearths. Still, he felt that, with Christmas imminent, anything might happen. Nevertheless, he looked with some surprise toward the door when the brass knocker announced a Christmas Eve visitor.
The door opened on well-oiled hinges—well-worn from frequent hospitality. For a moment--a moment only--Scrooge thought he was once again visited by a spirit of long ago. He clutched the doorframe tightly and blinked, revealing not a vision after all, but a visitor. Two visitors, it seemed—one of them known to him quite well.
“A merry Christmas Eve to you, Uncle Scrooge,” said Peter Crachit. His handclasp was firm, and he greeted his father’s partner warmly. Perhaps it was because he had been reminiscing, but Scrooge noticed of a sudden how tall Peter had grown, and how very much he resembled his father tonight. A young man, thought Scrooge, but a man all the same.
A young lady was presented. Her cheeks were pink from exertion and the cold, and despite the evidence of determined effort, her light brown curls were tumbled about her neck beneath a neat bonnet. Her hazel eyes were direct, the lashes slightly darker than her hair and her lips held the evidence of good humor. Not truly pretty, thought Scrooge, but a very smart girl all the same. Having dismissed all the servants for the evening, Scrooge bustled around himself to take their snow-flecked coats, herding them toward the fireplace with a solicitousness that had become second nature to him. Warm cider was procured from the covered pot in the kitchen, and sandwiches and slices of fresh fruit were produced above protests, but consumed with considerable relish.
The young lady’s name had been ascertained--Miss Aribella Wickham, and Scrooge became aware of two things. The way those direct eyes changed and softened when they fell on Peter, and Peter’s return of that same proprietary glance told Scrooge that this young lady would soon be contemplating the name of Crachit. The second thing was more complex, but no less familiar to Scrooge. He had, in the time since his transformation, received his share of skeptical glances. Only time had served him in these cases--time and the well-earned reputation that he gained as a humbled and changed man. But this look was more than skeptical, and though very focused contained no hostility. Avid curiosity, surely, but no hostility. He smiled at her and waited for the questions to come.
“Mother says I’m not to bother you,” said Miss Wickham abruptly. She shot a pleading look at Peter that seemed to also include her host, and her hands twisted nervously in the voluminous folds of her blue plush. “She says I’m not to--but Peter said that I might--” She broke off suddenly, her cheeks flushing scarlet.
“If you are a friend of Peter’s, and I deem you are, you cannot bother me buy asking a question,” Ebenezer Scrooge said gently. “Curiosity is a trait that amuses me, especially in myself. What may I tell you?”
Miss Wickham looked relieved, but also uncertain. Her direct eyes were fastened on Scrooge now, oddly familiar. He could almost swear--
“You know my Grandmama,” said Miss Wickham suddenly. “At least, you did, I think. Oh, do tell me if it was really you!”
Ah. Comprehension flooded Scrooge’s face and he sighed, suddenly weary. It happened, from time to time, that he encountered someone to whom amends were impossible to make. Perhaps this young lady’s grandmother had been one of the less fortunate recipients of assistance from Marley and Scrooge. This though made Scrooge’s face no less scarlet than her own, reminding him of his own necessary humility, but he smiled all the same.
“I may have,” he said quietly. “Who was your Grandmother?”
He saw her lips move, heard the name drop eagerly from her lips, then all went black for a moment. Next he knew, he was sitting back in his chair with his collar loosened and a snifter of brandy pressed against his trembling lips. Peter stood anxiously nearby, insisting that he drink the fiery liquid, and Scrooge gulped it gratefully, feeling the warmth flood his face, his chest, his belly. Miss Wickham sat on the floor at his feet, patting his hand gently and looking so troubled that he felt quite the malingerer.
“Oh, Mr. Scrooge,” she cried. “Mama was right. I’m so terribly sorry to have upset you. I just--oh, I’m so awfully sorry!”
Scrooge sat up and took the snifter of brandy from the young Mr. Crachit, waving him away. Peter went immediately to the young lady’s side and took her free hand, wanting to comfort her as well.
The color had come back in to Scrooge’s weathered cheek, and his eyes, if anything, were sparkling more brightly than before. He leaned forward earnestly in his chair.
“Yes. Yes, I knew her,” he said simply. “We--we were to have been married.”
Peter stared at him, uncomprehending, then looked at Miss Wickham in surprise. She had what can only be described as a look of triumph on her face, which was gradually unveiling after her recent mortification.
“Then it is you,” whispered Miss Wickham, her expression reverent. “I thought it must be you, especially after I read the, um, her--” She faltered, looking embarrassed, but plunged in gamely. “Her letters,” she said simply. “When she…passed over last year, I was to have gotten some of her things. There was a beautiful tortoise shell comb, and some lovely broaches and, and she left me a stack of letters. Not on accident, mind you. I didn’t find them tucked in a drawer or anything. They were wrapped up and tied with a new ribbon--and they were left for me.” She looked at Ebenezer Scrooge, searching his face carefully. “The letters were from...I mean, I believe they were from….”
”From me? Yes—they were from me.”
Scrooge’s face had undergone a series of startling transformations while she spoke. Surprise mingled with grief mingled with joy and satisfaction and some slight degree of embarrassment played over his features in their turn. His eyes fastened on her face hungrily.
“She has...passed?” he said softly.
Miss Wickham nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “Last year, before the cold weather.”
Scrooge nodded, not unaware of the tears moving down his face but unconcerned about them. “I had wondered. And your Grandfather?” he asked carefully.
“Dead these ten years,” said Miss Wickham softly. “He was a good man--oh!” She covered her mouth with her hand, suddenly realizing the intense awkwardness of an already awkward situation.
Scrooge held up a hand to ward off her apologies and protests.
“I am sure that he was,” he said quietly. “And so might I have been had I heeded your Grandmother’s advice so many years ago.” He looked at her, his eyes misty. “She was a lovely woman, and there was more goodness in her than in many fine folk. I am glad she was…well-matched.” He paused, but they had so much between them already that it was impossible not to continue. “And your mother--”
“Their only child,” Miss Wickham answered, somehow sensing what he wanted to know. “And I am her only child.”
Scrooge reached out determinedly and seized her hand, clasping it tightly between his own. It was impossible to say what he wanted so to say, impossible to know what it was he might have said had he found any voice at all. Aribella’s own eyes were full of tears, and she looked at him in genuine sympathy and earnestness.
“This might have been my grand-daughter,” he thought, feeling a pang like he had never known. Peter’s face swam into view, bewildered, confused. The sight anchored Scrooge, and he realized with dawning wonder that, if his assumptions about these young people were true, he might very well find himself a grand-father of sorts after all. Scrooge released her hand from one of his own and found Peter’s sturdy arm, bringing their hands together. They smiled at each other as their hands clasped, fingers lacing tightly. Seeing it, Scrooge felt his heart lift. He was not wrong about this couple, and he might yet hope to have a part in this little drama of theirs.
“Come,” said Scrooge gently. “Let us sit together. There are things I want to know, and things I want to share.”
Miss Wickham’s face bloomed into a smile and she was, suddenly, the most beautiful woman that Scrooge had ever seen--save one. She allowed Peter to lead her to a chair, sat down primly and turned her face up to him.
“What may I tell you?” she asked softly.
Scrooge’s lined old face smiled down at her.
“Everything,” he said softly. “Tell me everything.”
If Scrooge had been a changed man some years ago, he was changed again this Christmas. It was talked of by those who knew him best with bemusement and no little surprise, and though is was observed and sworn by at length, there were only three persons in all of London who might have truly guessed the reason that the last of Ebenezer Scrooge’s melancholy had been spirited away. There was no man whose cheer so infused his neighbors, no citizen whose duty was so steeped in pleasure, as the once-miserly man of business whose business was now the happiness of all who called him friend. Scrooge had once sought to lord over others, but had ended up instead with the most benevolent of kingdoms.
“I’ve never seen Uncle looking so well,” said Frederick to the bespeckled, melon-headed gentleman near him.
“Or so generous!” beamed the little man happily. “He has outdone himself again!” He turned to him companion thoughtfully. “Beakie—have you tried the punch? I think it has pineapple in it—and just a touch of kiwi!” Fred left them discussing the relative merits of different fruit juices and moved about the roomed in a contented state.
Contentment seemed contagious here, which had been Ebenezer’s intent—every joyful surprise expertly balanced by warmth and familiarity. Scrooge had wanted this place to be a refuge, a haven from the cold outer world, but even here, things did not remain static. Only last year, little Gwen Applegate--despite being a tiny little thing--had declared herself too big to sit on Scrooge’s knee and hear a story. No matter, Scrooge thought, watching little Frederick pat his mother’s face gently with pudgy baby hands. People grew, people changed. Babies grew up and became the parents of babes themselves. Involuntarily, his eyes sought out Peter and Aribella, as he led her, laughing, through the steps of “Hole In the Wall” and he sighed with satisfaction. Even at the Fozziewigs, he had never—quite—felt a part of it before, but he knew himself to be a part of the larger pattern now as surely as if he’d sired a hundred children. Some people get a chance to do a thing right after getting it so horribly wrong. Scrooge knew himself to be one of the lucky ones.
Bob Crachit approached and thumped him heartily on the back.
“Ebenezer,” he said fondly. “What a decadent display this has become!”
Scrooge smiled, remembering the exuberant excesses of the Fozziewig family with great fondness.
“Bah humbug,” he said. “This--this is nothing. Wait until next year!”
And Bob had laughed and moved off to dance with his cheerful wife. Later, she would bustle over with a fresh drink for him, fussing over his blanket, the fire, and it would all be with the same tender tyranny with which she ran her own family. Tim came by, bringing another armload of wood for the fire. Coal was more constant, but a lovely yule log was hard to resist. Scrooge touched it as it passed, willing regrets away, and sending fervents hopes forward.
A life can be made right. What’s lost may be found again, if looked for. Even, and especially, at Christmastime.
“A blessed Christmas Eve to you, Jacob and Robert,” Scrooge said to the not-quite-empty air. There were times, like this one, when he was more than positive that his old partners were with him in slightly more than spirit. It had been five years since their timely visit had saved him, not only from an eternity of damnation, but from a lifetime of loneliness. He had once begged their spectral selves for words of comfort. He thought--he hoped--that they took some small comfort (if there was comfort to be had in the dark place in which they found themselves) from the great happiness they had ultimately brought to him, and through him to many others.
“Another year of Christmas dawning on the horizon. I thank you for it, again.”
There may be have been a subtle rustle of acquiescence near the fireplace, then the quiet seemed to settle comfortably again.
Tomorrow there would be much to do. Fred and Clara and little Frederick would collect him for church, and afterward they would share the fellowship of friends in Fred’s big, noisy drawing room. Tomorrow evening, this room would be the largest source of light and laughter in the Old City--at least, if this year was anything like last year. The pantry was overflowing with food, and the brass and woodwork had been polished so that you could see your reflection--or the reflection of anyone else who might choose to visit, thought Scrooge wryly. He wasn’t expecting anyone tonight; Bob had closed the office hours ago and sent the dutiful bookkeepers off full of punch and pie and thoughts of their own hearths. Still, he felt that, with Christmas imminent, anything might happen. Nevertheless, he looked with some surprise toward the door when the brass knocker announced a Christmas Eve visitor.
The door opened on well-oiled hinges—well-worn from frequent hospitality. For a moment--a moment only--Scrooge thought he was once again visited by a spirit of long ago. He clutched the doorframe tightly and blinked, revealing not a vision after all, but a visitor. Two visitors, it seemed—one of them known to him quite well.
“A merry Christmas Eve to you, Uncle Scrooge,” said Peter Crachit. His handclasp was firm, and he greeted his father’s partner warmly. Perhaps it was because he had been reminiscing, but Scrooge noticed of a sudden how tall Peter had grown, and how very much he resembled his father tonight. A young man, thought Scrooge, but a man all the same.
A young lady was presented. Her cheeks were pink from exertion and the cold, and despite the evidence of determined effort, her light brown curls were tumbled about her neck beneath a neat bonnet. Her hazel eyes were direct, the lashes slightly darker than her hair and her lips held the evidence of good humor. Not truly pretty, thought Scrooge, but a very smart girl all the same. Having dismissed all the servants for the evening, Scrooge bustled around himself to take their snow-flecked coats, herding them toward the fireplace with a solicitousness that had become second nature to him. Warm cider was procured from the covered pot in the kitchen, and sandwiches and slices of fresh fruit were produced above protests, but consumed with considerable relish.
The young lady’s name had been ascertained--Miss Aribella Wickham, and Scrooge became aware of two things. The way those direct eyes changed and softened when they fell on Peter, and Peter’s return of that same proprietary glance told Scrooge that this young lady would soon be contemplating the name of Crachit. The second thing was more complex, but no less familiar to Scrooge. He had, in the time since his transformation, received his share of skeptical glances. Only time had served him in these cases--time and the well-earned reputation that he gained as a humbled and changed man. But this look was more than skeptical, and though very focused contained no hostility. Avid curiosity, surely, but no hostility. He smiled at her and waited for the questions to come.
“Mother says I’m not to bother you,” said Miss Wickham abruptly. She shot a pleading look at Peter that seemed to also include her host, and her hands twisted nervously in the voluminous folds of her blue plush. “She says I’m not to--but Peter said that I might--” She broke off suddenly, her cheeks flushing scarlet.
“If you are a friend of Peter’s, and I deem you are, you cannot bother me buy asking a question,” Ebenezer Scrooge said gently. “Curiosity is a trait that amuses me, especially in myself. What may I tell you?”
Miss Wickham looked relieved, but also uncertain. Her direct eyes were fastened on Scrooge now, oddly familiar. He could almost swear--
“You know my Grandmama,” said Miss Wickham suddenly. “At least, you did, I think. Oh, do tell me if it was really you!”
Ah. Comprehension flooded Scrooge’s face and he sighed, suddenly weary. It happened, from time to time, that he encountered someone to whom amends were impossible to make. Perhaps this young lady’s grandmother had been one of the less fortunate recipients of assistance from Marley and Scrooge. This though made Scrooge’s face no less scarlet than her own, reminding him of his own necessary humility, but he smiled all the same.
“I may have,” he said quietly. “Who was your Grandmother?”
He saw her lips move, heard the name drop eagerly from her lips, then all went black for a moment. Next he knew, he was sitting back in his chair with his collar loosened and a snifter of brandy pressed against his trembling lips. Peter stood anxiously nearby, insisting that he drink the fiery liquid, and Scrooge gulped it gratefully, feeling the warmth flood his face, his chest, his belly. Miss Wickham sat on the floor at his feet, patting his hand gently and looking so troubled that he felt quite the malingerer.
“Oh, Mr. Scrooge,” she cried. “Mama was right. I’m so terribly sorry to have upset you. I just--oh, I’m so awfully sorry!”
Scrooge sat up and took the snifter of brandy from the young Mr. Crachit, waving him away. Peter went immediately to the young lady’s side and took her free hand, wanting to comfort her as well.
The color had come back in to Scrooge’s weathered cheek, and his eyes, if anything, were sparkling more brightly than before. He leaned forward earnestly in his chair.
“Yes. Yes, I knew her,” he said simply. “We--we were to have been married.”
Peter stared at him, uncomprehending, then looked at Miss Wickham in surprise. She had what can only be described as a look of triumph on her face, which was gradually unveiling after her recent mortification.
“Then it is you,” whispered Miss Wickham, her expression reverent. “I thought it must be you, especially after I read the, um, her--” She faltered, looking embarrassed, but plunged in gamely. “Her letters,” she said simply. “When she…passed over last year, I was to have gotten some of her things. There was a beautiful tortoise shell comb, and some lovely broaches and, and she left me a stack of letters. Not on accident, mind you. I didn’t find them tucked in a drawer or anything. They were wrapped up and tied with a new ribbon--and they were left for me.” She looked at Ebenezer Scrooge, searching his face carefully. “The letters were from...I mean, I believe they were from….”
”From me? Yes—they were from me.”
Scrooge’s face had undergone a series of startling transformations while she spoke. Surprise mingled with grief mingled with joy and satisfaction and some slight degree of embarrassment played over his features in their turn. His eyes fastened on her face hungrily.
“She has...passed?” he said softly.
Miss Wickham nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “Last year, before the cold weather.”
Scrooge nodded, not unaware of the tears moving down his face but unconcerned about them. “I had wondered. And your Grandfather?” he asked carefully.
“Dead these ten years,” said Miss Wickham softly. “He was a good man--oh!” She covered her mouth with her hand, suddenly realizing the intense awkwardness of an already awkward situation.
Scrooge held up a hand to ward off her apologies and protests.
“I am sure that he was,” he said quietly. “And so might I have been had I heeded your Grandmother’s advice so many years ago.” He looked at her, his eyes misty. “She was a lovely woman, and there was more goodness in her than in many fine folk. I am glad she was…well-matched.” He paused, but they had so much between them already that it was impossible not to continue. “And your mother--”
“Their only child,” Miss Wickham answered, somehow sensing what he wanted to know. “And I am her only child.”
Scrooge reached out determinedly and seized her hand, clasping it tightly between his own. It was impossible to say what he wanted so to say, impossible to know what it was he might have said had he found any voice at all. Aribella’s own eyes were full of tears, and she looked at him in genuine sympathy and earnestness.
“This might have been my grand-daughter,” he thought, feeling a pang like he had never known. Peter’s face swam into view, bewildered, confused. The sight anchored Scrooge, and he realized with dawning wonder that, if his assumptions about these young people were true, he might very well find himself a grand-father of sorts after all. Scrooge released her hand from one of his own and found Peter’s sturdy arm, bringing their hands together. They smiled at each other as their hands clasped, fingers lacing tightly. Seeing it, Scrooge felt his heart lift. He was not wrong about this couple, and he might yet hope to have a part in this little drama of theirs.
“Come,” said Scrooge gently. “Let us sit together. There are things I want to know, and things I want to share.”
Miss Wickham’s face bloomed into a smile and she was, suddenly, the most beautiful woman that Scrooge had ever seen--save one. She allowed Peter to lead her to a chair, sat down primly and turned her face up to him.
“What may I tell you?” she asked softly.
Scrooge’s lined old face smiled down at her.
“Everything,” he said softly. “Tell me everything.”
If Scrooge had been a changed man some years ago, he was changed again this Christmas. It was talked of by those who knew him best with bemusement and no little surprise, and though is was observed and sworn by at length, there were only three persons in all of London who might have truly guessed the reason that the last of Ebenezer Scrooge’s melancholy had been spirited away. There was no man whose cheer so infused his neighbors, no citizen whose duty was so steeped in pleasure, as the once-miserly man of business whose business was now the happiness of all who called him friend. Scrooge had once sought to lord over others, but had ended up instead with the most benevolent of kingdoms.
“I’ve never seen Uncle looking so well,” said Frederick to the bespeckled, melon-headed gentleman near him.
“Or so generous!” beamed the little man happily. “He has outdone himself again!” He turned to him companion thoughtfully. “Beakie—have you tried the punch? I think it has pineapple in it—and just a touch of kiwi!” Fred left them discussing the relative merits of different fruit juices and moved about the roomed in a contented state.
Contentment seemed contagious here, which had been Ebenezer’s intent—every joyful surprise expertly balanced by warmth and familiarity. Scrooge had wanted this place to be a refuge, a haven from the cold outer world, but even here, things did not remain static. Only last year, little Gwen Applegate--despite being a tiny little thing--had declared herself too big to sit on Scrooge’s knee and hear a story. No matter, Scrooge thought, watching little Frederick pat his mother’s face gently with pudgy baby hands. People grew, people changed. Babies grew up and became the parents of babes themselves. Involuntarily, his eyes sought out Peter and Aribella, as he led her, laughing, through the steps of “Hole In the Wall” and he sighed with satisfaction. Even at the Fozziewigs, he had never—quite—felt a part of it before, but he knew himself to be a part of the larger pattern now as surely as if he’d sired a hundred children. Some people get a chance to do a thing right after getting it so horribly wrong. Scrooge knew himself to be one of the lucky ones.
Bob Crachit approached and thumped him heartily on the back.
“Ebenezer,” he said fondly. “What a decadent display this has become!”
Scrooge smiled, remembering the exuberant excesses of the Fozziewig family with great fondness.
“Bah humbug,” he said. “This--this is nothing. Wait until next year!”
And Bob had laughed and moved off to dance with his cheerful wife. Later, she would bustle over with a fresh drink for him, fussing over his blanket, the fire, and it would all be with the same tender tyranny with which she ran her own family. Tim came by, bringing another armload of wood for the fire. Coal was more constant, but a lovely yule log was hard to resist. Scrooge touched it as it passed, willing regrets away, and sending fervents hopes forward.
A life can be made right. What’s lost may be found again, if looked for. Even, and especially, at Christmastime.
