Sybrina (8 page)

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks,
“My dear Scrooge, how are you?  When will you come to see me?”  No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o’clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge.  Even the blind men’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, “No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!”

But what did Scrooge care?
  It was the very thing he liked.  To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call “nuts” to Scrooge.

Once upon a time
—of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve—old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house.  It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them.  The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already—it had not been light all day: and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air.  The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms.  To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

The door of Scrooge
’s counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters.  Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk’s fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal.  But he couldn’t replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part.  Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed.

“
A merry Christmas, uncle!  God save you!” cried a cheerful voice.  It was the voice of Scrooge’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

“
Bah!” said Scrooge, “Humbug!”

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge
’s, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.

“
Christmas a humbug, uncle!” said Scrooge’s nephew.  “You don’t mean that, I am sure.”

“
I do,” said Scrooge.  “Merry Christmas!  What right have you to be merry?  What reason have you to be merry?  You’re poor enough.”

“
Come, then,” returned the nephew gaily.  “What right have you to be dismal?  What reason have you to be morose?  You’re rich enough.”

Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said
“Bah!” again; and followed it up with “Humbug.”

“
Don’t be cross, uncle!” said the nephew.

“
What else can I be,” returned the uncle, “when I live in such a world of fools as this?  Merry Christmas!  Out upon merry Christmas!  What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in ’em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you?  If I could work my will,” said Scrooge indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.  He should!”

“
Uncle!” pleaded the nephew.

“
Nephew!” returned the uncle, sternly, “keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.”

“
Keep it!” repeated Scrooge’s nephew.  “But you don’t keep it.”

“
Let me leave it alone, then,” said Scrooge.  “Much good may it do you!  Much good it has ever done you!”

“
There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say,” returned the nephew.  “Christmas among the rest.  But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round—apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that—as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.  And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded: becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark
forever.

“
Let me hear another sound from you,” said Scrooge, “and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing your situation.  You’re quite a powerful speaker, sir,” he added, turning to his nephew.  “I wonder you don’t go into Parliament.”

“
Don’t be angry, uncle.  Come!  Dine with us tomorrow.”

Scrooge said that he would see him
—yes, indeed he did.  He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity first.

“
But why?”  cried Scrooge’s nephew.  “Why?”

“
Why did you get married?”  said Scrooge.

“
Because I fell in love.”

“
Because you fell in love!” growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas.  “Good afternoon!”

“
Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened.  Why give it as a reason for not coming now?”

“
Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.

“
I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?”

“
Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.

“
I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute.  We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party.  But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I’ll keep my Christmas humour to the last.  So A Merry Christmas, uncle!”

“
Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.

“
And A Happy New Year!”

“
Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.

His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding.
  He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who cold as he was, was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially.

I break with this initial introduction
of the unmoving, cantankerous Scrooge.  “A surly old man, isn’t he?” I comment aloud.

“
A very apt description, I would say,” the minister remarks sardonically.  “What about you, Captain?”

The sour face of the captain nods in agreement. And the whole situation reveals itself.  The minister is mocking the captain by comparing him to Scrooge
’s character.  It is wicked, but I must say a funny exploit.  I hid a laugh behind my hand—a truly deep and honest laugh that I have not felt in a long time.

“
It is a fine thing to see you smile, Miss Sybrina.”  A full blush sweeps my cheeks at the minister’s compliment.  “It gives your constitution a healthy glow after such a nasty bout of fever.”

“
I wish to thank you again for being so attentive to me during my sickness.”

“
I wanted to do it,” he asserts with a very serious air.  His eyes are piercing through me as if he is trying to read my soul.  There is more I want to say.  I want to tell the captain how wonderful the crew has been and to thank him personally for my dress, but without warning the minister stands.  “You must rest.”  He reaches his hand out for me to take it.  His cool flesh melts into mine and a yearning sparks in me—a dizziness unrelated to illness.  My knees are weak when he helps me to stand.  He towers over me as he places my hand in the crook of his elbow and guides me to the doorway. 

The minister announces,
“Thank you for the dinner, Captain.”  He moves, taking me with him, and I feel wanted and appreciated in that moment. 

“
Thank you,” I manage to squeak and walk down the hallway with Elijah.

Elijah:

Being away from her is more challenging than I thought
after spending days mending her.  Keeping a distance was difficult, now the meeting has commenced, there is no going backward.  The ramifications are that I cannot get enough of her presence. I wanted her out of the company of the odious captain.  He served his purpose by giving me an opportunity to provide a civilized meal at a proper table.  With her hand securely fastened in the crook of my arm, I escort the lady to her chambers with marked obedience to propriety. 

“
I’m not sure how to digest such a wicked joke.  I actually felt a pang for the captain.” Sybrina giggles gently.

“
It was far less than he deserved,” I respond, agitated at the captain.

“
I would think a man of the clergy would be forgiving.”

“
I am trying to be.”

“
I wasn’t actually forthright on this voyage.”

“
We all aren’t who we appear to be.”  A cryptic response that maybe I should have repressed.  Covering my folly, I add, “I noticed your mirth; do not attempt to fool me.”  My face quirks up and I grin down at her.  “Besides, no one should be imprisoned for a deed such as reading.  It is preposterous.”

“
I agree.”  I notice reluctance in her steps and voice as we approach her chamber. “Might we take a walk?  Moving my legs feels good.  I have been reclined for much too long.”

“
Of course.”  I appreciate the request because I truly do not want to let her go.  I would be content to spend the rest of eternity with her by my side, hand snug and close to me.  “Such a choice the crew has provided for their reading...
Moby Dick
,” I start, choosing an innocuous conversation for a walk.

“
Yes, you would think that they would find something that would give them an escape from the sea,” Sybrina notes as we step out of the confines of the cabin area and out into the brisk night air.

“
The tale is aptly fitting,” I remark. “An obsessed captain intent on the demise of the whale who took his leg. The man shortsighted and blind—devoid of the sensibilities that make rationale an essential quality of one ‘in charge.’”

“
The human condition can taint sensibilities… with greed, malice... and selfishness.” I see only the profile of her face as she muses with me, discussing flaws and weaknesses in the persona of man.  “Regardless,” she continues with earnest, “I find the tale one of vanity.”

“
Vanity, you say?”  I cannot suppress my humor at hearing her speculation. Her contemplations are riveting and I cannot get enough of them.

“
A man’s vanity.” She breathes deeply, gathering her conclusions. “Captain Ahab’s disfigurement is his ruinous undoing and he puts all those around him at death’s door.  He cannot see past his disabled body.  He must prove something to himself at the cost of others.”

“
Hmmm...” I consider this.  “I perceived it as revenge that smothers the captain and claims his soul.  Two soulless creatures fighting to the death, a whale and a man chewed upon and swallowed by vengeance,” I convey, thinking how fittingly accurate her reflections of the tale are told from her feminine perspective.  This beautiful woman never ceases to amaze me.

“
Tales are typically founded in the root of human folly.  I’ve known many men who follow only one road and never truly see the ideologies of anything else. My father was a stubborn man but could, with the proper influence and information, see past his doggedness.  He was challenging, but had depth.”

“
He was most difficult,” I concur, turning her to face me. I reach my hand up in a forward gesture, cupping her cheek. A lust boils in me, not for blood, but to kiss her lips.  Those plump, pink lips should be kissed often. “But the sun rose and set with you,” I whisper, my thoughts slipping from my own lips unguarded.

She pauses for a moment, drinking in my declaration with an unmistakable blink of query, making her eyes even more radiant. A blunder in my relaxed
, lustful state—carrying on a fruitful conversation with the beauty that haunts me day and night.

“
You were acquainted with my father?” she asks incredulously.

“
I was,” I respond lightly but have erred once more.  Knowing her as I do, this will require her to delve deeper into my response.