I
It was at precisely eight o’clock, on the evening of the twenty-fourth
of December, that Mr. Broadstreet yawned, glanced at the time-piece,
closed the book he had been reading, and stretched himself out
comfortably in his smoking-chair before the cannel fire which snapped
and rustled cosily in the broad grate. The book was “A Christmas
Carol,” and the reader, familiar as he was with its pages, had been
considerably affected by that portion relating to Tiny Tim, as well as
cheered by the joyful notes with which the Carol ends.
For some minutes he sat silently surveying the pattern on his
slippers, and apparently working it out again on his own brow. Now,
Mr. Broadstreet was not a man to act upon impulse. A lawyer in large
and profitable practice, and a shrewd man of business as well, he was
never known to do, say, or decide anything without deliberation.
“Hold on a bit,” he would say to an eager client, “softly, softly, my
friend, you’re too fast for me. Now, what did you say was done with
the property?” and so on to the end of the story. If there was any
money in the case, Mr. Broadstreet was pretty sure to draw it out, for
the benefit of his clients, and, remotely of course, himself.
“When I put my hand _down_,” he was fond of remarking, with
significant gesture upon the office desk, “I never take it up again
without something in it.”
In the course of his long practice, aided by a series of fortunate
speculations, he had amassed such a goodly sum that his name stood
near the head of the list of “Our Prominent Taxpayers;” he drove a
fine span of horses, and was free enough with his money, in a general
way. That is, when some large philanthropic movement was on foot,
Alonzo M. Broadstreet, Esq., was pretty sure to be down for a round
sum. He paid his share in church and politics, and annually sent a
check to the Board of Foreign Missions. He made it a rule, however,
never to encourage pauperism by promiscuous almsgiving, and never
tried a case or gave legal advice, for love. Poor people who called at
his office for assistance always found him unaccountably busy, and
street beggars had long since learned to skip his door on their
morning basket-visits.
To-night Mr. Broadstreet had picked up the “Carol” in a specially
complacent mood. He had spent liberally in Christmas gifts for his
wife and children, letting himself almost defy his better judgment by
purchasing for the former an expensive pin she had seen and fancied in
a show window the week before. Just as he had completed the bargain a
rescript had come down from the Supreme Court affirming judgment in
his favor in a case which meant at least a five-thousand-dollar fee.
Notwithstanding the memory of his recent good luck, he continued, on
this particular evening, of all evenings in the year, to knit his
brows and give unmistakable evidence that some emotion or reflection,
not altogether pleasant, was stirring him powerfully.
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Broadstreet presently, half aloud, as if he were
addressing some one in the center of the glowing coals. “Nonsense!” he
repeated, looking hard at a grotesque, carved figure that supported
the mantel: “I’m _not_ like Scrooge. I give freely and I spend freely.
That fire don’t look much like the one old Scrooge warmed his gruel
over, does it now?”
The marble figure making no answer to this appeal, but continuing his
stony gaze, Mr. Broadstreet shifted his position again uneasily.
“Don’t I give away hundreds of dollars every year to the Societies,
and haven’t I left them a round ten thousand in my will? Won’t
somebody mourn for _me_, eh?”
But the carved lips replied never a word, only seeming to curl
slightly as the firelight played upon them, thereby assuming such an
unpleasantly scornful expression that Mr. Broadstreet began to feel
more uncomfortable than ever.
Rising hastily from his chair and throwing the book down upon the
table, he walked on to the window, rubbed a little place clear upon
the frosty pane, and looked out.
The night was gloomy enough to make the plainest of homes seem cheery
by contrast. Since morning the skies had been dully gray, so that
every one who went out wore arctics and carried umbrellas, and was
provoked because no storm came. At about the time when the sun might
be supposed to be setting, somewhere behind that dismal wall of
clouds, a few tiny, shivering flakes had come floating down or up, one
could hardly tell which, and had mingled with the dust that, driven by
the biting wind, had filled the air, and piled itself in little ridges
along the sidewalk, and blinded the eyes of men and beasts throughout
the dreary day. Before long the snow overcame the low-born friend with
whom it had at first treacherously allied itself, laid it prostrate on
the earth, and calling in all its forces rioted victoriously over the
field. The storm now took full possession of the city, whitening roofs
and pavements, muffling every footfall and wheel-rattle, filling the
streets up to their slaty brims with whirling mists of sleety snow,
and roaring furiously through the tree-tops and around corners. As Mr.
Broadstreet gazed through his frosty loophole, with mind full of the
story he had just finished, he almost fancied he could discern the
shadowy forms of old Marley and his fellow-ghosts moaning and wringing
their hands as they swept past in trailing white robes.
He turned away with a half-shiver and once more ensconced himself in
his warm easy chair, taking up the Carol as he did so, and turning its
leaves carelessly until he came to a picture of the Ghost of Christmas
Present. It was wonderfully well-drawn, following the text with great
care, hitting off the idea of the jovial, holly-crowned Spirit to the
very life. And then the heap of good things that lay in generous piles
about the room! Mr. Broadstreet could almost catch a whiff of
fragrance from the turkeys and geese and spicy boughs. Indeed, so
strong was the illusion that he involuntarily glanced over his
shoulder at the marble-topped table near by, half expecting to see an
appetizing dish of eatables at his side. No one had entered, however,
and the table was as usual, with only its album and gilt-mounted
screen, flanked by a few books that were too choice to be hidden away
on the library shelves. When he looked back at the picture in the
book, he started and rubbed his eyes. He thought--but it could not
have been possible--that the central figure on the page moved
slightly; and he was positive that one of the Ghost’s arms, in the
engraving, had been raised, while now both were at his side.
Mr. Broadstreet turned back the leaf with some misgiving, and looked
carefully behind it. Nothing but blank white paper.
“H’m,” muttered Mr. Broadstreet to himself, “how a man’s fancy does
play strange tricks with--Halloo!”
He was once more glancing at the picture, when the jolly Ghost gave
him an unmistakable wink.
To say that the lawyer started, was astonished, struck dumb--would be
mild. He sat staring at the page, not wholly believing his own eyes,
and yet not liking to look upon such a--to say the least--peculiar
picture.
While he was in this bewildered state of mind a rich, jovial voice was
heard, apparently at a great distance, and at the same time proceeding
directly from the book he held in his hand; and--yes, no doubt about
it--the Ghost’s bearded lips were moving.
“Well?” said the Ghost of Christmas Present, still seeming very, very
far off.
“Well, sir?” stammered Mr. Broadstreet, in return.
“You see I’m not dead yet, although some of your good people on this
side of the water pay precious little attention to me.”
“Why, really,” said Mr. Broadstreet, instinctively arguing the
opposite side of the question, “as to that, I’m not so sure. Take
Christmas cards, now. A few years ago they were unknown; now they’re
as common as valentines.”
“Oh, yes,” replied the Ghost, “I know. You see I have my room pretty
well decorated with them.”
The lawyer scrutinized the background of the picture more carefully,
and, sure enough, the walls were covered with what at first seemed a
rich sort of illuminated paper, but proved to be composed entirely of
Christmas cards, many of which he had never seen. Even in the
momentary glance he gave, he observed that those which had taken
prizes and had been most largely advertised during the past few
winters, were tucked away in obscure corners, while several which were
exceedingly simple in design and text occupied the most prominent
positions.
“Yes,” the Ghost went on, “the cards are well enough in their way, and
so are the other displays and festivities of the day. But it is the
spirit of Christmas that you need. Charity, charity in its good old
sense: open hearts and kind deeds, with less thought of self-pleasing.
While these dainty little gifts are being manufactured, purchased,
sent, and thrown away, hundreds of people are at starvation’s door in
your own city; thousands of people know little or nothing of the real
meaning of the day, or of its Founder.”
As the Ghost spoke, its voice seemed to come nearer, and at the same
time the book grew so large and heavy that Mr. Broadstreet was fain to
set it down upon the carpet. He no longer feared the Ghost, nor did it
seem strange that it should converse with him in this manner.
“Wherein are we deficient?” he asked eagerly. “Or what more can we do?
The charitable institutions of Boston are among the best in the world,
the sky is full of her church-steeples, her police and missionary
forces are vigilant and effective in their work.”
The Ghost of Christmas Present gave a toss to his long hair and
beard.
“How much have you done to carry the spirit of Christmastide beyond
your own threshold? Who in this great city will cherish the day and
love it more dearly for your warm human friendship and kindly act,
until it symbolizes to them whatever is purest and merriest and
holiest in life?”
The Ghost’s voice, now grown very near, was rather sad than stern, and
its eyes were fixed intently upon Mr. Broadstreet’s face.
Mr. Broadstreet hesitated. With cross-examination he was familiar
enough, but he did not relish the part of witness. So confused was he
that he hardly noticed that book and picture were now so large that
they quite filled the end of the room in which he was sitting, and
seemed like another apartment opening out of his own.
“I--I--hardly know,” he stammered. “Really, I’ve spent a good deal of
money; my Christmas bills are always tremendous, but I suppose it’s
mostly in the family.”
“Mind,” interrupted the Ghost, almost sharply, “I don’t say anything
against the good cheer and merriment at home. But there are many homes
within a stone’s throw of your chair, where there will be no fine
dinner, no presents, no meeting of friends, no tree,--nothing but
anxiety and doubt and despair. Your dressing-gown would provide for
several of them.”
Mr. Broadstreet looked meekly at the embroidery upon his sleeves.
“What would you have me do?” he asked.
“Do you desire to perform your part toward making the morrow bright
for some one who otherwise would find it all clouds? Do you wish to
plant seeds of love and mercy and tenderness in some heart that has
heretofore borne only thistles? To bring a smile to some weary face,
warmth to shivering limbs, light and hope to dreary lives?”
“I do! I do!” exclaimed the rich man, eagerly starting up from his
chair.
“And are you ready to sacrifice your ease and comfort, this stormy
night, for such as they?”
Mr. Broadstreet seized his fur cap and ulster from the rack in the
hall. “Try me!” he cried. “I’m ready for anything!”
The Ghost smiled pleasantly upon him, at the same time seeming to lift
its hand involuntarily, as in blessing. Then it spoke for the last
time.
“Hitherto you have known only the bright side of Christmas,” it said
gently. “It has been full of joy to you and yours. But there are those
among your fellow creatures, nay, among your very neighbors, who dwell
in such continued misery that when Christmas comes it but reminds them
of their unhappy state, and by its excess of light upon others deepens
the gloom about themselves. This is the Shadow of Christmas Present,
and it falls heavily upon many a heart and many a household, where the
day, with its good cheer and blessed associations, should bring naught
but delight.” The kind Spirit’s voice wavered slightly. “I, myself,
can do but little to dispel this shadow. It grieves me sorely, year
by year, but it remains, and I fear I sometimes but make it worse,
with my bluff ways and keen winter breezes. It is for those who love
me most to carry such light and comfort to those upon whom it rests,
that it shall be banished never to return. The shadow grows less year
by year, but it is still broad, broad.”
The Ghost was silent a moment. It beckoned to the other, and motioned
to him to step behind it. “In my Shadow you shall move to-night,” it
concluded, in a firmer voice. “It shall accompany you wherever you go,
and your work shall be to turn it away, with whatever kind deeds your
hand shall find to do, or cheering words you may have the power to
speak.”
It said no more. Mr. Broadstreet, who, when a child, had often longed
to peep behind a picture, found himself actually fulfilling his wish.
As he drew nearer the printed page, he heard a dull roar, like surf
beating upon a rocky coast. He advanced further, picking his way
around the pile of poultry and vegetables and glistening holly upon
which the Ghost sat enthroned. A moment more and the room vanished in
utter blackness of night, the roar grew grander and deeper, until it
throbbed in his ears like the diapason of a mighty organ, a fierce
blast of snow-laden wind struck his bewildered face, the street-lamp
upon the corner flickered feebly in a mist of flakes--he was standing
before his own door, knee-deep in a snow-drift, and buffeted above,
below, and on every side by the storm that was abroad that Christmas
Eve.