STAVE THREE
THE SECOND OF THE THREE SPIRITS.
Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Mac Taylor had no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of One. He felt that he was restored to consciousness in the right nick of time, for the especial purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger dispatched to him through Bill Hunt's intervention. But finding that he turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonder which of his curtains this new specter would draw back, he put them every one aside with his own hands; and lying down again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed. For he wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise, and made nervous.
Some of his colleagues often boasted to be men-about-town, indifferent in front of every kind of situation, able to face everything, from a simple street game to the murder. Without venturing on affirming something so biding for Mac Taylor's case, I don't think to exaggerate saying that he was prepared to face several strange apparitions, and nothing, from a baby to a rhino, would have astonished him.
Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the Bell struck One, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. All this time, he lay upon his bed, the very core and centre of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it when the clock proclaimed the hour; and which, being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as Mac was powerless to make out what it meant, or would be at; and was sometimes apprehensive that he might be at that very moment an interesting case of spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation of knowing it. He already imagined himself laying on Sid's table, surrounded by the curiosity of his ex colleagues.
At last, however, he began to think—as you or I would have thought at first; for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too—at last, I say, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and shuffled in his slippers to the door.
The moment Mac's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.
It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Mac, as he came peeping round the door.
"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in! And know me better, man!"
The detective entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit. He was not the dogged man he had been; and though the Spirit's eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them.
"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit. "Look upon me!"
Mac reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment hung so loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining to be awarded or concealed by any artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown curls were long and free; free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanor, and its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.
"You have never seen the like of me before!" exclaimed the Spirit.
"Never," the agent made answer to it.
"Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family; meaning (for I am very young) my elder brothers born in these later years?" pursued the Phantom.
"I don't think I have," said Mac. "I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?"
"More than two thousand," said the Ghost.
"Spirit," said Mac submissively, "conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now. Tonight, if you have ought to teach me, let me profit by it."
"Touch my robe!"
Mac did as he was told, and held it fast.
Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night.
They stood in New York City streets on Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their houses and on the tops of their roofs; it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snow-storms.
The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground; which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of cars; furrows that crossed and re-crossed each other hundreds of times where the great streets branched off; and made intricate channels, hard to trace in the thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist full of smog, half thawed, half frozen. There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavored to diffuse in vain.
For, the people who were shoveling away on the housetops were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball—better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest—laughing heartily if it went right and not less heartily if it went wrong. Shops were still half open and they were radiant in their glory; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humor possible.
But soon the steeples called good people all, to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. Along the crowded streets, the Spirit took off the covers and sprinkled incense from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good humor was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it was!
They went on their walk, invisible as ever, in a different quarter. A particularly feature of the Ghost was that, despite its gigantic seizes, it could adapt itself to every place, so it stood under a low ceiling with the same grace of supernatural creature with which it would have appeared in a luxury lounge.
It led him to a house the detective knew very well, the agent Danny Messer's one. In the doorway the Spirit smiled and stopped to bless the house.
The small apartment was perfectly decorated for Christmas and it rang out of the wails and giggle of Lucy, upright on her unstable little legs, that was trying to catch the lowest little balls' line hanged on the Christmas tree, risking to bring down it upon herself with lights, paper chains and a comet tip.
Fortunately her dad arrived on time and lifted her up among his arms… What a sweet and light weight to carry… With the child in his arms, who was stirring and was stretching out her arms to pull out the higher decorations, Danny Messer sat at the table where, for the occasion, an embroided with green and red Christmas stars tablecloth had been lying.
Lindsay came in triumphant, carrying a tray on which there was a phenomenal bird that compared with a black swan, the latter would have been an ordinary vision; in fact, things were more or less like that, since the agent usually was too busy with her job to dedicate herself to the cuisine and she reserved her culinary talent only for special occasions like that. A goose stuffed with sage and onions, with apple sauce and crushed potatoes.
But Danny Messer almost had to go; he tried to enjoy the company of his wife and his daughter as much as possible at Christmas, but it was late… He absolutely had to go to work, or his chief would have troubled him, also in such a special day.
His smile died down while he was putting down Lucy in her playpen and ignored the baby's laments, who didn't want to be placed there. At the same speed, Lindsay's smile died down, observing that her husband was putting his gun in the case and was putting on the jacket with false self-assurance.
"Do you really have to?" her gloomy look meant.
"I really have to" answered the guy's blue eyes.
The Spirit looked at Danny Messer in his face and made a pain face that Mac noticed.
"What's on?" he asked him, inexplicably worried.
"I see a vacant seat" the Ghost answered, with sad voice "A shield inside a drawn, held with love. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, a terrible misfortune will beat down on this house and this family: the young man will die".
"No, no…" Mac said "No…"
"If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future" the specter repeated "None of my sort will find him in this place".
The tenant bent before the Ghost's rebuke, and trembling cast his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them speedily, on hearing his own name.
"You could at least wait!" Lindsay sarcastically said, handing to her husband a glass of steaming punch "Let's drink to Mac Taylor..."
"To Mac Taylor who's favor to this feast!" Danny laughed rising the glass.
"And it must be Christmas Day" she added "because it is possible to drink a toast to a man so dull, reserved and hard like him! He takes you away from us at Christmas, too!"
Danny hugged her to take away that invincible gloom.
"I'll drink to his health because of your love and because it's Christmas" the young woman said "But not for his love! If Lucy had to throw a tantrum because she don't want to go to bed, when she will be older, we would be able to use him as a threat, like an ogre of this family..."
Both two soundly laughed: there was nothing of high mark in this, it wasn't a family particularly rich or powerful, their house was completely normal, but they were happy, thankful for the present and they loved each other; when they were less visible, they seemed happier in the light rain that the Spectre's torch diffused on them at the moment to go away.
Mac Taylor didn't stop looking at them until the end, especially Danny.
By this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and as Mac and the Spirit went along the streets, the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlors, and all sorts of rooms, was wonderful. Here, the flickering of the blaze showed preparations for a cozy dinner, with deep red curtains, ready to be drawn to shut out cold and darkness. There all the children of the house were running out into the snow to meet their married sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, and be the first to greet them. Here, again, were shadows on the window-blind of guests assembling; and there a group of handsome girls, all hooded and fur-booted, and all chattering at once, tripped lightly off to some near neighbor's house. One of them laughed out loudly as the Spirit passed, though little kenned the lamplighter that he had any company but Christmas!
The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Mac hold his robe, and passing on above the moor, sped—whither? Not to sea? To sea. Looking back, he saw the last of the land, a frightful range of rocks, behind them; and his ears were deafened by the thundering of water, as it rolled and roared, and raged among the dreadful caverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to undermine the earth.
Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. Great heaps of sea-weed clung to its base, and storm-birds—born of the wind one might suppose, as sea-weed of the water—rose and fell about it, like the waves they skimmed.
But even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire, that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray of brightness on the awful sea. Joining their horny hands over the rough table at which they sat, they wished each other Merry Christmas in their can of grog; and one of them: the elder, too, with his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the figure-head of an old ship might be: struck up a sturdy song that was like a Gale in itself.
Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea—on, on—until, being far away, as he told Mac, from any shore, they lighted on a warship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him.
It was a great surprise to Mac Taylor, while listening to the moaning of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on through the lonely darkness over an unknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound as Death: it was a great surprise to Scrooge, while thus engaged, to hear a hearty laugh.
It was a much greater surprise to him to recognize it as the one of the pathologist Sid Hammerback and to find himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at the medic with approving affability.
"He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live!" cried Sid. "He believed it too!"
"More shame for him!" his wife laughed.
"However, his offences carry their own punishment... I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims! Himself, always. Well, he's lonelier and lonelier, closer and closer, more and more intractable. The consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, either in his moldy old office, or his dusty chambers. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it—I defy him—if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after year, and inviting him here. And I think I shook him yesterday."
It was their turn to laugh now at the notion of his shaking Mac Taylor. But being thoroughly good-natured, and not much caring what they laughed at, so that they laughed at any rate, he encouraged them in their merriment, and passed the bottle joyously.
After having played the piano and sung Christmas songs, Sid suggested a game, because sometimes it's pleasant to become younger again, and there's no better moment than Christmas, when his powerful Creator was a young boy himself.
It was a Game called Yes and No, where the doctor had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed, elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in New York, and walked about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh question that was put to him, Sid Hammerback burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last the plump sister, falling into a similar state, cried out: "I have found it out, daddy! I know what it is!"
"What is it?" he cried.
"It's your chief, Mac Tayl-o-o-o-o-r!"
Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to "Is it a bear?" ought to have been "Yes;" inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from the tenant, supposing they had ever had any tendency that way.
"He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure," said Sid's wife, "and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and I say, 'Mac Taylor!' "
"Well! Mac Taylor!" they cried.
"A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to him, whatever he is... God bless us!" Sid added, rising the glass.
The whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by the doctor; and the detective and the Spirit were again upon their travels.
Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery's every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door, and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Mac his precepts.
It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Mac had his doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. It was strange, too, that while he remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. The agent had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children's Twelfth Night party, when, looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was grey.
"Are spirits' lives so short?" he asked.
"My life upon this globe, is very brief," replied the Ghost. "It ends tonight."
"Tonight!" cried Mac.
"Tonight at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near."
The bell struck twelve.
Mac Taylor looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old Bill Hunt, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him.