Chapter 8
Author Note: Everything familiar belongs to either Julian Fellowes or Charles Dickens.
Mary was now stood outside the window of the Masons' house. She expected to hear noise - the previous ghost had shown William and his lot to be a jovial family, although they did not have much. But it was silent. The phantom guided Mary into the dwelling she had visited before; and found the mother and the children seated round the fire. Quiet. Very quiet. Daisy Mason and her daughter were sewing. But surely they were very quiet.
The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face.
"Mother, you're crying." Sarah sighed. Daisy shook her head.
"The colour hurts my eyes." she said. "It makes them weak by candlelight, and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father, for anything."
"I think he's walked a little slower these few last evenings." young Albert said. The family were very quiet again. At last the silence was broken by the opening of a door and words in a steady, cheerful voice as William came in.
"Hello everyone." he stated. The family gathered round him.
"You went up there today then, William?" asked Daisy. William's lanky frame bent down to embrace his tiny wife.
"Yes, my dear Daisy. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often." he replied, his voice shaking. The invisible Mary had a dreadful feeling in the pit of her stomach. She hoped she was wrong.
"Not Phyllis." she whispered. William told the family how he'd bumped into Sybbie Branson, who upon seeing William's distraught expression, said if there was anything she could do to help, all William had to do was ask.
"Dearest Sybbie." Mary sighed. "So like her mother, always looking out for others. Even me, when I didn't deserve it." she sighed with bitterness.
"She is the most pleasant-spoken lady you ever heard, and I told her I would consider her generosity, should we ever want it. She was sorry that nothing could be done for our Phyllis." William continued. Daisy sniffed. He sat down at the table. After the others followed his example, Daisy spoke.
"God bless Sybbie Branson, then." she trembled. William filled his glass.
"However and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Phyllis, or this first parting that there was among us." he said. Mary's face was tear-stained at William's words.
"Spirit." said the brunette, "something in my gut tells me that you have something else to show me. Please do so." she sighed. The scene changed, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come brought her to the churchyard where they had first met. Upon a second look, Mary saw that the place was overrun by grass and weeds, and choked up with too much burying. The creature glided between the cemetery plots, a shaking Mary following, almost frozen with fear by this point. After minutes, they had come to a spot between multiple plots, so many graves could be visited. The Spirit gestured with a skeletal hand for Mary to read the tombstones. Teeth chattering, she wiped away the frost on them, and was slightly confused.
"Papa, Mama, Edith, dearest Sybil, Evelyn Napier... Phyllis Mason... Spirit, what's your reasoning? I already know that these people have passed." she whispered. Appearing to tilt its head to one side, as if she had asked a foolish question, the Spirit stood among the graves and pointed down to one in particular. This one looked like it had been an afterthought to the monumental mason and he had not cared in making the stone.
Mary was not unintelligent, and saw the neglect visible. She made a guess as to which poor soul might be commemorated there.
"Is it the poor blinded man I saw? But then I didn't know his name." she said, chilly breath visible in the freezing churchyard. She advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but looking back at the creature, Mary dreaded that she saw new meaning in its solemn shape.
"Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point," said the brunette, "answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?" she asked.
Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood.
"The ways lives are led foreshadow certain ends, I understand that." said Mary. "But if you change, the ends will change too. Tell me that is the message that you intend to get across. Please." she trembled.
"Please." she repeated, voice cracking. The Ghost did nothing but gesture with its skeletal hand again.
Mary crept towards the tombstone, shaking all over as she went, and following the bony finger, read the name upon the stone of the neglected grave. Her own name, MARY CRAWLEY. She fell to her knees and gasped.
"No, Spirit! Oh no, no!" she screamed. The finger still was there.
"Spirit!" she cried, tightly clutching at its robe, "hear me. I am not the woman I was. I will not be the woman who everyone perceived to not have a heart! Why show me this, if I am past all hope?"
For the first time the hand appeared to shake.
"I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. All three Spirits shall leave a mark on me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!" she sobbed in earnest.
In her agony, she caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself, but she was strong. Until The Spirit, stronger yet, kicked her to the floor. Bracing herself for the feeling of wintry grass, she was surprised to feel cotton.