Chapter 6
Author Note: Everything familiar belongs to either Julian Fellowes or Charles Dickens.
With the spirit's help, an invisible Mary made into the Masons' house, where William was giving another toast as he held up his glass.
"Miss Crawley! I give you Miss Crawley, the Founder of the Feast!"
"The Founder of the Feast indeed!" cried Daisy, reddening. "I wish I had her here. I'd give her a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope she'd choke!"
"Oh, cripes." the see-through Mary whispered.
"My dear." said William. "Think of the children. Christmas Day."
"It can only be Christmas Day, I am sure." said Daisy. "On which one drinks to the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling woman as Mary Crawley. You know she is, William. Nobody knows it better than you."
"But Daisy..." William trailed off, realising there was no point.
"I'll drink to her health for your sake and because it is Christmas, not for hers. A merry Christmas and a happy new year to Mary Crawley, she'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt!" Daisy bit back.
"I suppose I haven't done much to endear myself to her." Mary said, somewhat sadly. "Treating William in that callous way for six years."
"Maybe." the Ghost of Christmas Present responded.
The Masons couldn't always make ends meet. But, they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and content with the occasion. Well, until the mention of Mary's name cast a dark shadow on the party.
Mary looked at the family through the bright sprinklings of the Spirit's torch, and especially had her eye on little Phyllis. But Daisy's harsh words wouldn't exit her head. While not surprised by them, she was disheartened.
"I pray that Phyllis gets better, but I can't stand to be here any longer."
By this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily. As Mary and the spirit went along the streets, the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlours, and all sorts of rooms was wonderful. Here, the flickering of the blaze showed preparations for a cosy dinner. A solitary lamplighter, who ran on before dotting the dusky street with specks of light, and who was dressed to spend the evening somewhere, laughed out loudly as the duo passed, though he had no company at all but the festive feelings of the season. And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost, Mary was whisked away to a ship.
They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, 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. It was a great surprise to Mary, when with another flurry of the Spirit's robe, she heard a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Mary to recognise it as Sybbie Branson's. Turning around, Mary found herself in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing by her side, and smiling at Sybbie with approving affability.
"Ha, ha!" chuckled Sybbie. "She said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live and breathe! She believed it too." the Branson child finished. Mary flinched - Sybbie was obviously telling her company of that afternoon.
"More shame for her, Sybbie." said Johnny Bates indignantly.
"She's a comical old sort, it's true." Sybbie continued. "And not so pleasant as she might be. But she's family, and I have nothing to say against her."
"I'm sure she is very crafty with money." hinted Johnny. "At least you always tell me so. I have no patience with her." he continued. There was a general murmur of agreement from their guests. Sybbie turned thoughtful.
"Oh, I have - I'm sorry for her. I couldn't be angry with her if I tried. Who suffers by her sour whims? Herself, always. She takes it into her head to dislike us, and she won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence?"
"Indeed, I think she loses a very good dinner," interrupted Johnny. Mary bristled, trying to pretend that her niece's comments didn't sting slightly.
"And we've had our dinner, so how about some games?" Sybbie pondered.
The houseful took to their games, and Mary, even though she was invisible to the others, looked to join in the merriment. The Ghost was greatly pleased to find her in this mood, and didn't mind loitering. First was a game called Yes and No, where Sybbie had to think of something, and the rest must find out what, her only answering to their questions yes or no.
It turned out, through peals of laughter from her audience, that she was thinking of an animal, a live animal, a rather disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes. Suddenly a guest had an idea.
"I've got it!" Charlie Parks exclaimed. "I know what it is, Sybbie!"
"What is it?" teased Sybbie.
"It's your Aunt Mary!" he replied, laughing.
Which it certainly was. This subsequently gave way to much rapturous laughter and admiration for Sybbie's wit.
"She has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure," said Sybbie, "and it would be ungrateful not to drink to her health. Here is a glass of mulled wine ready, to Aunt Mary!"
"To Mary Crawley!" the others cried. Mary, still unbeknownst to them, found herself with an emotional lump in her throat.
"A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to her, wherever she is." said Mary's niece. "She wouldn't take it from me, but may she have it, anyway!"
"You're wrong, Sybbie. I'd take it." Mary whispered so lowly she wasn't even sure the words had come from her lips. She'd become so light-hearted, that she would have thanked all the guests in an inaudible speech. Had the ghost given her time, for the giant spirited them away, to many other homes. Much they saw, and far they went, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds, and those in them were cheerful. Struggling men were patient in their hopefulness that things would change. This extended to jails, too. Even in misery's refuge, where vanity had barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Mary his principles.
It was a long night, if it were only a night. But the brunette had her doubts of this, because the Christmas holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they spent together. It was strange, too, that while Mary remained unchanged, the ghost grew older, clearly older. The Crawley woman 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 a churchyard, she noticed that its hair was grey.
"Are spirits' lives so short?" asked Mary.
"My life upon this globe is very brief." replied the Ghost. "It ends on the stroke of twelve." he said, glancing at the church clock, which had its minute hand some point between eleven and twelve. Mary glanced too.
"Twelve?" she gawked. "But Spirit, you have taught me so much."
"And soon you will have a new visitor teach you new lessons." the Ghost of Christmas Present remarked. Mary's face paled. "Are you not always ready to face the future, Mary Crawley?" the ghost pondered rhetorically. A rustle in his robe occurred, and Mary thought she saw... something emerge from beneath it, becoming visible. She dared not ask what that something was. The ghost was half-right - she was ready to face the future, but not like this. "Spirit..." she gasped. The bell struck twelve. Mary looked around her for the Ghost, and saw it no more. As the last stroke ceased to sound, she felt her breastbone grow extremely cold. Like her heart had physically turned to ice. Turning around, she beheld a solemn phantom, draped and hooded, coming towards her, like a mist along the ground.