"Supreme Dawn" is the title of a chapter in Les Misérables by Victor Hugo.
"A Fond Farewell"
Bob Cratchit ran as fast as his legs could carry him, as though his life depended on it—though, in fact, another man's peace in death may have depended on it. He nearly skidded on patches of ice on the cobblestones, and took care when he turned the corner onto the street. He recognized the house from visits on the last few previous Christmases.
He grasped the doorknocker and banged it vigorously. He stamped his feet on the front step, more out of impatience than a need to keep warm. Finally, mercifully, the door opened, and Fred stood in the threshold.
"Why, merry Christmas, Mr. Cratchit!"
"Forgive me, Mister Fred, but your uncle asked me to fetch you quickly."
Fred seemed to understand at once. "My uncle, is he …"
"He's not well; he's been talking about his partner, Mr. Marley, and asking about his will … In any event, he wants you and I to be with him if it's his time."
"Is he all alone now?"
"I left my Tim watching over him."
"I'll go at once." Fred took less than a minute to tell his wife where he was going and don his hat and scarf before coming out. Both men walked briskly, though the danger of ice kept them from running.
"You say you left Tiny Tim with him," Fred said. "How is the lad?"
Bob smiled faintly. "Not so tiny anymore: he's going on twelve years old, and nearly as strong as his brothers and sisters. You know, they've taken to calling my employer 'Uncle Scrooge,' as you do—he's become that much like a member of our family. I hope that doesn't vex you?"
"Not a bit! I'm glad to hear it." Fred hesitated, panting a little as they dodged passersby carrying parcels. "I have to ask, Mr. Cratchit—is my uncle's condition so serious?"
"He admitted to feeling tired, and I must say that disturbed me more than any symptom of illness. You know how hard he works in his business, and how energetic he is in company; yet he moved slowly and thought about going to bed in the middle of the day." It was actually close to the end of the daylight hours; the solstice had occurred a few days prior, and the sun wound set in another hour or so.
"Mightn't we call a doctor?"
"He said he would more readily welcome a priest; but it was your company he truly desired."
Finally they came upon Scrooge's residence. The door had been left unlocked, and Fred followed Bob into the house and up the stairs to the bedchamber. Bob knocked lightly before opening the door.
Inside the room, the window curtains were open to let in what daylight still remained, and a lamp had been lit in the shaded part of the room. A small but steady fire burned in the hearth. Tim Cratchit sat in a chair next to the bed, in which lay Ebenezer Scrooge.
The old man was sitting as upright as his propped-up pillows would allow, so he saw the two men enter. He smiled amiably at them. "Bob Cratchit! You're back; and my nephew too! Oh, God is merciful—but I learned that some time ago."
Fred removed his hat and came over to the bedside. "Are you well, Uncle Scrooge?"
"I'm not in pain, if that's what you mean. I feel fatigued more than anything. I feel as though I could take a long nap; but I know if I give in I shan't wake again."
Tim pushed another chair to the bed, and Fred and Bob seated themselves. Bob sat up straight and attentive; Fred leaned forward slightly, gentle and affectionate. "Thank you, son," Bob said. At this Tim thought himself dismissed, but he hesitated to leave.
Scrooge saved him. "Let the boy stay; I can be brief about my financial affairs; it's company I need now, and he is most welcome."
Tim obliged, and came around to the other side of the bed to sit on its edge.
"Well, then, to get business out of the way," Scrooge said. "I didn't tell you, Mr. Cratchit, but in the evenings, when there was time after I'd finished my work—that's when I worked on writing my will, and a testament of my life's journey. You'll find the documents in the drawer of my desk at the office. I've done my best to arrange everything I could."
"Well, you were always very thorough, Uncle," Fred said with a small smile.
"Oh, do smile! I'd rather you didn't weep over my death—at least not more than what may be called necessary. I suppose I wouldn't mind some tender feelings regarding me. I hope you'll remember me in my better times … I've done my best to serve my penance in life, that I may not have such a burden in death."
"You've done more than anyone asked or expected of you! Why, you paid for Tim's health and care; you give to every beggar and busker you see on the street."
"Well, the last you mentioned may be an indulgence; I learned to love their music."
"Yet you did not always; you used to grow irritated whenever you passed a group singing carols. What caused that change—or for that matter, so many changes in you, over such a short time?"
Scrooge was silent for a moment, reflecting and debating. "I gave a full account in my last testament. Perhaps I ought to warn you: it is a strange tale. It may have been a dream, but I did experience it; I hope you will believe that much."
Fred and Bob exchanged glances, wondering at how queerly Scrooge spoke. The old man continued, almost speaking to himself, or to an absent person. "It was a dozen years ago, to the day, that old Marley died. Ah, Jacob, my only friend at the time … I had others before him, perhaps, but I must have lost track of them. Friends are few and far between for me, you understand. I give thanks I can count so many now."
"I give thanks, too," Fred said truthfully.
"And I," agreed Bob.
"And I," Tim echoed.
Scrooge turned his head to look upon the child, who was just starting to grow out of childhood. "Ah, Tim. I'll give you this, my boy: you brought some much-needed joy into an old man's life. Remember that you have accomplished that much already."
"I will, sir."
Scrooge smiled and clasped the boy's hand. "If you will do me one last favor, lad: sing a Christmas carol for me."
Tim brightened at this, glad to oblige. When he began, Scrooge noticed that his voice was not the sweet soprano it used to be; his tones were changing, and thus he sang a bit deeper, perhaps alto range. But more significant to both of them were the words of the carol he chose.
"God rest you merry, gentlemen, may nothing you dismay! Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas day, to save us all from Satan's power when we had gone astray. O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, O tidings of comfort and joy!"
"Well said—or well sung, I should say," Scrooge said appreciatively. "You'll think of me sometimes, won't you? Perhaps when you sing carols such as that."
"We will," Tim promised, speaking for himself, the two gentlemen, and his family.
"God bless you, every one!" Scrooge was still smiling as he closed his eyes; a moment later his face relaxed, and his arms became limp on the bedspread; and everyone present knew that Ebenezer Scrooge was dead.
Fred raised a gloved hand to his face, shuddering slightly in his attempt to keep from weeping. Bob Cratchit leaned forward and clasped his hands in prayer, hoping to make swift his employer's—his friend's—ascent to Heaven. Tiny Tim simply leaned over and laid a kiss on the old man's forehead.