Victorian Era Death

If Jacob Marley had known that that night he was going to die and join the inhabitants of the underworld he would have thought himself insane. He wouldn't have believed the very truth, even though it was right in front of him. It was too shocking, too horrific, and why would it happen to him anyway? Surely money-making and the others dealings of his trade would bring him to a rich end? Apparently not.

It was an eve of biting cold; the freezing winds whipped through the streets and chilled all to the bone, while the snow fell thick and fast. The door of Scrooge and Marley's counting house was closed tightly and locked, but the strongest piece of ironmongery could not stop the icy gale from penetrating the dingy room. Scrooge sat at his desk, scribbling on a piece of parchment with his quill and occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see that the company clerk, Mr. Cratchit, was hard at work, which he was. Cratchit was the hardest working of the three, Scrooge, Marley and himself, it would seem. Marley too had his nose to the grindstone; he was herding gold coins into piles of five apiece, grinning to himself as he did so, although occasionally bursting into bouts of coughing.

The clock struck seven and at that same moment the door of the counting house opened and in came Scrooge's nephew, Fred. The door swung shut behind him with a bang, startling Marley so much that he promptly knocked fifteen shillings to the floor where, upon impact, they scattered to and fro. Cursing under his breath, Marley dismounted from his stool and bustled round the office collecting them.

Scrooge looked up from his work, angry that he had been interrupted. When he saw Fred he raised his eyes heavenwards and turned to face him.

"What do you mean by coming here during business hours?" he snapped. "Surely you know better than that?"

Fred ignored his uncle's question and instead wrung his hand. "Uncle Ebenezer, it's such a pleasure to see your happy, smiling face!" said he, taking off his hat and placing it on Scrooge's desk. Cratchit laughed at the comment; Scrooge's face had never been happy or smiling as long as he'd known it. Scrooge glowered and pushed Fred's hand away. Marley had by now picked up all his coins and, glaring at Cratchit, he returned to his desk. Cratchit fell silent at once.

"So, Fred," said Scrooge. "What are you doing here at this time? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"But Uncle Ebenezer, its seven o'clock on Christmas Eve! That's not working hours, that's practically slave labour!"

"Hear, hear!" chimed in Cratchit, without thinking.

"Thank you, Cratchit!" Scrooge said sarcastically, shooting a glare in Cratchit's direction. "If I don't hear another peep from you until eight o'clock you may actually be able to save your situation!"

Fred gaped speechless at his uncle. What had caused him to be so heartless, and on Christmas Eve of all nights? Puzzling over the thought, he said, in an attempt to indulge Scrooge in the Christmas spirit: "Well uncle, why don't you come to my house tomorrow and dine with my wife and I? It would be our pleasure!"

"Are you daft?" growled Scrooge. "First you go babbling on about Merry Christmas and then you go and get yourself married to some woman who'll spend what little money you have on frivolity!" He shuddered violently at the very thought.

Fred, seeing it would be useless to pursue his point, put his hat back on his head and pulled on his gloves. Every year he made this journey in homage to Christmas, and every year it was the same. As he turned to leave he glanced back at the scene before him. Scrooge was poring over his ledger, quill poised in midair as he thought of what to write. Cratchit was back at work, taking note of Scrooge and Marley's various debtors and Marley was busily constructing a tower of crowns, shivering violently from the cold fog that seeped through the keyhole.

"Uncle Ebenezer?" Fred asked, looking back at Scrooge, who did not look up. "Have you ever thought of using the fireplace?" He gestured towards the black grate in the corner, which had been deprived of flames for decades. Fred felt sorry for his lonely old uncle, and even more so, if possible, for his sorry employees, and it saddened him to see Scrooge so selfishly ignoring the fact that one of them looking near freezing to death.

Scrooge, of course, could not read minds and therefore did not know what his nephew thought. He merely shrugged and bid him in his usual gruff manner to leave him in peace. Fred obeyed and the office was silent once more save for the scratching of quills and the occasional hacking cough from Marley. He had had a dreadful cold for a few days now…little did he know what that mere cold would soon become.

As the clock chimed thirty minutes past Marley got up from his stool and made his way over to his partner's desk. He could bear the dreadful cold no longer and hoped his old friend would agree to let him go home and retire to bed. This is no longer the common cold, he thought, and it may only get worse if I continue to stay in this freezing environment! Although Marley knew his home would be no warmer then the office, at least he would have the comfort of a warm bed and perhaps a little gruel.

Scrooge, surprised to see Marley standing by his desk instead of doing his usual tasks, stared at him incredulously. "What're you doing over here Marley?" Scrooge asked.

"I'm afraid I don't feel well Ebenezer," Marley replied, with slight difficulty. "I think I've taken ill with something…"

"Then, by all means, begone from here!" Scrooge snapped. 'Get back to your house and get Mrs. Dilber to call you a medical practioneer. Now, leave me alone! I won't let a little thing like illness distract me from my work!"

"Very well," Marley replied. "Thank you." He donned hat, overcoat and gloves before heading out into the snow.

The streets of London were as cold as is to be expected during the festive season. The snow was pelting thicker and harder than it had been for many a year and the strong winds blew the snow with force against all in its way. Marley peering haphazardly through the sleet, his glasses of little use as they were now encrusted with melting snow was finding it harder and harder to keep on walking. Every time he took a step his walking stick sunk into the snow bank and he was beginning to feel drowsy. Assuming it was the cold going to his brain, he struggled on.

At length he reached his house; a gloomy, derelict building, barely visible through his clouded vision. He let himself in, lit a candle and staggered up the stairs, his breathing becoming more and more of an effort which each step upwards. He was almost at the top when he met Mrs. Dilber, the housekeeper. She at once took heed of his condition.

"Mr. Marley sir, whatever is the matter?" she asked, concern in her voice.

And that was when he fainted.

The door of Scrooge & Marley burst open and in rushed Mrs. Dilber, out a breath and clutching a stitch in her side; having run the whole way to the counting house. Scrooge ignored this interruption and continued his work, sealing one deed and unrolling another.

"Mr. Scrooge!" Mrs. Dilber shrieked, hysteria making her blind to the fact that Scrooge didn't care why she was there, one way or the other. As expected Scrooge did not look up, instead he waved his free hand in Cratchit's direction, making it plain that he should deal with whatever commotion had arisen. As indicated, Mrs. Dilber hurried over to Cratchit's desk.

"I've come to say that Mister Marley ain't expected to make it through the night and that if Mister Scrooge wishes to take his leave of him, he'd best nip along sharply, or there won't be no Mister Marley to take leave of, as we know the use of the word. He's breathing very queer - when he does breathe at all!"

"What?" cried Cratchit, not having realized the severity of his employer's condition.

"He gets home roundabout seven forty, he's all weak an' shaking and he can barely talk straight and then he faints right before my eyes! I got a doctor in and he says it's a case of severe something or other, hypothermia I think it was," Mrs. Dilber explained, with a sad shake of the head. "You'd be best to tell Mr. Scrooge!"

"I, well, he's very busy and hates to be disturbed right now, but I'll try Mrs. Dilber!" Cratchit said reverently. Although he hated Marley and feared both him and his business partner, he knew it was his duty to relay the news to Scrooge. Mrs. Dilber beamed at Cratchit's words and swept from the office without looking back.

"Mr. Scrooge sir?" Cratchit enquired tentatively, arriving at Scrooge's desk.

"Can't anyone see I'm trying to run a business here?" snarled Scrooge, his voice tinged with malice.

"Well, it's about Mr. Marley sir! He's dying!"

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" sneered Scrooge. "If he's dying, he's dying!"

Cratchit gasped, speechless, at his heartless master. Didn't he care about Marley? Had he even understood the news that he had just been told? Then, Cratchit did something he would have never dreamed of doing in normal circumstances…he answered back.

"I'm sorry sir, but did you understand what I said? Mr. Marley, your business partner is-"

"Amazingly, Cratchit, I understood every word!" growled Scrooge. "And furthermore I shall not be leaving this office until eight o' clock, when the working day is over with! On that note, get back to YOUR work!" With that, he returned to his parchment.

Meanwhile, back in Marley's quarters, the doctor had been and gone; saying that there was nothing to be done for Marley, and adding that he was surprised he'd lasted this long what with the state of his residence. Mrs. Dilber hadn't looked too happy about that until she realized he was talking about the temperature of the place. Marley lay on his deathbed; he had by now ceased to shiver and instead lay still, looking as though Death had already struck.

The door to the bedroom opened, and in walked the undertaker, looking as though he was trying to hide the fact that Marley was on the brink of death, and that he was glad of the fact. He explained to Mrs. Dilber that the doctor and sent him, and enquired as to the whereabouts of Mr. Scrooge. The housekeeper replied that he should be there soon, and so they waited whilst Marley lay, gasping out his last.

At long last the hour of eight was upon Scrooge & Marley, and indeed the rest of London. Scrooge, with an ill-will dismounted from his stool. He put on his hat and pulled on his great black coat, fastening up the buttons as though he had all the time in the world. Since he was angrier at Cratchit then was usual he swept from the office without even giving him the days wages. Cratchit grabbed his coat and scarf and ran out after Scrooge, who was walking briskly, even with his cane.

"Mr. Scrooge sir, I know this sounds selfish but I…need my wages sir!" he cried as he caught up with him.

Scrooge extracted a pouch from his pocket, from which he withdrew several shillings. He shoved them into Cratchit's hands and walked on, without looking at him.

"I'm very sorry sir, but I forgot to ask! Is it possible if I have tomorrow off because-"

"Because it's Christmas, I'm guessing!" Scrooge said frostily, managing to be heard over the gale that was now blowing. "Very well, you may take the day, but only because I'm a maytr to my own generousity. I give you one Christmas Day off and you expect them all!"
"Thank you very much sir!" said Cratchit gratefully. He turned on his heel and vanished from sight in the snow.

Scrooge walked on, all manner of thoughts floating in his brain. Marley was dying? Why hadn't he noticed the fact before? And why was he dying? Just some disease he supposed, hoping he didn't catch it. Would he already be dead when he, Scrooge, finally arrived? If there's anything worse than Christmas it's a Christmas snowstorm…

Mrs. Dilber had almost given up hope that Scrooge would turn up, when he did just that.

"Who's this?" Scrooge asked, pointing to the undertaker. "The doctor?"

"No, he's been and gone. This is the undertaker!"

Scrooge shook the man's hand, with a slight grimace.

The undertaker smiled weakly and then addressed him, with a simple: "We'll leave you two, shall we?"

He and Mrs. Dilber left the room and Scrooge walked over to Marley's bedside. As if he had heard his approach, Marley's gaze traveled upwards until he noticed Scrooge standing there.

"So, they've seen to you properly Jacob? Last rites and such?" Scrooge asked.

Marley nodded; speech was difficult for him as his life ebbed away, yet he knew he had to warn his only friend before it was too late…

"There isn't anything I can do?"

There's my chance! Marley thought. He had to say it now, he just had to…but his voice failed him. He simply nodded.

"Oh! What is it then?" Scrooge asked.

"While…there's still time…" Marley rasped, every word causing him pain to say.

"Time? Time for what, Jacob?"

"I was wrong…"

"Well, we can't be right all the time now, can we? Nobody's perfect, not even you and I. You have no reason to berate yourself, Jacob!"

"S-Save yourself…"

"Save myself?" Scrooge repeated incredulously. "Save myself from what?"

Marley could say no more. In the blink of an eye his heart ceased to beat and his breathing stopped, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. He was dead…dead as a doornail.