A Christmas Carol | Page 9

eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all
developed! Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its
little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its
vast means of usefulness! Not to know that no space of regret can make
amends for one life's opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Oh, such
was I!"
"But you were always a good man of business, Jacob," faltered Scrooge,
who now began to apply this to himself.
"Business!" cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. "Mankind was
my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy,
forbearance, and benevolence were, all, my business. The dealings of
my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my
business!"
It held up its chain at arm's length, as if that were the cause of all its
unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again.
"At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "I suffer most. Why
did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down,
and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a
poor abode? Were there no poor homes to which its light would have
conducted me?"
Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at this
rate, and began to quake exceedingly.
"Hear me!" cried the Ghost. "My time is nearly gone."

"I will," said Scrooge. "But don't be hard upon me! Don't be flowery,
Jacob! Pray!"
"How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may
not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day."
It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered, and wiped the
perspiration from his brow.
"That is no light part of my penance," pursued the Ghost. "I am here
to-night to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping
my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer."
"You were always a good friend to me," said Scrooge. "Thankee!"
"You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost, "by Three Spirits."
Scrooge's countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost's had done.
"Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?" he demanded in a
faltering voice.
"It is."
"I--I think I'd rather not," said Scrooge.
"Without their visits," said the Ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the
path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow when the bell tolls One."
"Couldn't I take 'em all at once, and have it over, Jacob?" hinted
Scrooge.
"Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third, upon
the next night when the last stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate.
Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you
remember what has passed between us!"
When it had said these words, the spectre took its wrapper from the
table, and bound it round its head as before. Scrooge knew this by the

smart sound its teeth made when the jaws were brought together by the
bandage. He ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his
supernatural visitor confronting him in an erect attitude, with its chain
wound over and about its arm.
The apparition walked backward from him; and, at every step it took,
the window raised itself a little, so that, when the spectre reached it, it
was wide open. It beckoned Scrooge to approach, which he did. When
they were within two paces of each other, Marley's Ghost held up its
hand, warning him to come no nearer. Scrooge stopped.
Not so much in obedience as in surprise and fear; for, on the raising of
the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the air; incoherent
sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and
self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the
mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.
Scrooge followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. He looked
out.
The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in
restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore
chains like Marley's Ghost; some few (they might be guilty
governments) were linked together; none were free. Many had been
personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He had been quite familiar
with one old ghost in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe
attached to its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a
wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below upon a doorstep.
The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for
good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever.
Whether these creatures faded into mist,