The Further Adventures of Ebenezer Scrooge Read Online Free Page B

shunned sleep, knowing as he did that his night would be haunted by not one but three spectres beyond that which had already paid him a visit. Not so for Scrooge, though. He climbed into bed, pulled the curtains shut around him, and was soon as sound asleep as you or I would be on a cold winter’s night when a fire burned in the grate, the covers were piled high atop us, and we had nothing more to worry our minds than to wonder if the snow would stop falling by daybreak.
    Scrooge awoke in blackness so complete that he knew it must be near the hour of the first ghost’s coming—for only at such an hour, deep in the night, would total darkness reign in midsummer. The air sat stiller than still around him andno sounds drifted up from the street to his open window. He was endeavouring to pierce the gloom with his sparkling eyes (which somehow continued to glitter despite the dearth of light) when the chimes of a neighbouring church struck the four quarters. Holding his breath with excitement, he listened for the hour. One. No more. The hour had come!
    Before Scrooge could leap from his bed to greet the visitor he knew must even then be arriving in his rooms, the curtains of his bed, at his feet, were drawn aside by a hand. In an instant Scrooge was sitting at the foot of the bed, his warm feet dangling above the floor, his face inches from the smooth and youthful visage of his unearthly visitor. How well he remembered that supernatural figure that hovered before him—though they had met only once, a score of years ago. The flowing hair of ancient white so incongruous with the tender bloom of rose on the unsullied cheeks, the muscular arms and legs bare to the warm air, the tunic of purest white, the sprig of holly, and above all the clear winter light that sprung from his head. Scrooge felt as if he were meeting an old friend, and he could not have been more delighted if the dearest companion of his youth had materialised in his rooms.
    â€œWelcome, gentle Spirit!” cried Scrooge. “I thank you for coming to my aid on a night when you should, by all rights, be at rest.”
    The Ghost of Christmas Past—for that, of course, is who stood before Mr. Scrooge—tossed back his head, shook his white locks, and let forth a long, musical sigh. “It is indeed many a year since I have ventured abroad in this sultry season, but I carry my winter with me.” Scrooge observed that the spirit’s sigh had frosted the windows and raised gooseflesh on his own arms. “What business brings me here?”
    â€œThe welfare of my dear friend Jacob Marley, and of a thousand others who suffer in this city tonight.”
    The ghost held out his hand. “I once guided you on a journey,” he said, “but now you have summoned me and shall be my guide. Whither would you?”
    Scrooge laid his hand on that of the ghost and clasped him gently. “Before we journey to that past which is your domain, we must collect another passenger,” he said. But before he had uttered the name of that soul, who lay asleep and unsuspecting a few miles away, he and the ghost had passed through the wall. Scrooge was afforded no more than a glimpse of the lights of London before he found himself standing, with his spectral companion, at the foot of a bed not unlike his own, though the room in which it stood was cluttered with papers that seemed to cascade from every surface (of which there were many). Wild-eyed and afraid for his life, his hair jutting out from his head at unlikely angles, sat Scrooge’s nephew,bolt upright and clinging to the bedsheet, which he had pulled nearly over his head in fright.
    â€œMerry Christmas, nephew!” bellowed Scrooge.
    â€œU-u-u-uncle?” stuttered the disbelieving nephew.
    â€œI’d like you to meet my nephew, Freddie,” said Scrooge, as casually as if he were introducing two acquaintances on a street corner. “Freddie, this is a dear friend of