三三言情小说

手机浏览器扫描二维码访问

tave three（第1页）

THESECONDOFTHETHREESPIRITS

Awakinginthemiddleofaprodigiouslytoughsnore，andsittingupinbedtogethisthoughtstogether，Scroogehadnooccasiontobetoldthatthebellwasagainuponthestrokeofone.Hefeltthathewasrestoredtoconsciousnessintherightnickoftime，fortheespecialpurposeofholdingaconferencewiththesecondmessengerdespatchedtohimthroughJacobMarley’sintervention.But，findingthatheturneduncomfortablycoldwhenhebegantowonderwhichofhiscurtainsthisnewspectrewoulddrawback，heputthemeveryoneasidewithhisownhands，andlyingdownagain，establishedagoodlook-outallroundthebed；forhewishedtochallengethespiritonthemomentofitsappearance，anddidnotwishtobetakenbysurprise，andmadenervous.

Gentlemenofthefree-and-easysort，whoplumethemselvesonbeingacquaintedwithamoveortwo，andbeingusuallyequaltothetime-of-day，expressthewiderangeoftheircapacityforadventurebyobservingthattheyaregoodforanythingfrompitch-and-tosstomanslaughter；betweenwhichoppositeextremes，nodoubt，thereliesatolerablywideandcomprehensiverangeofsubjects.WithoutventuringforScroogequiteashardilyasthis，Idon’tmindcallingonyoutobelievethathewasreadyforagoodbroadfieldofstrangeappearances，andthatnothingbetweenababyandrhinoceroswouldhaveastonishedhimverymuch.

Now，beingpreparedforalmostanything，hewasnotbyanymeanspreparedfornothing；and，consequently，whenthebellstruckone，andnoshapeappeared，hewastakenwithaviolentfitoftrembling.Fiveminutes，tenminutes，aquarterofanhourwentby，yetnothingcame.Allthistime，helayuponhisbed，theverycoreandcentreofablazeofruddylight，whichstreameduponitwhentheclockproclaimedthehour；andwhich，beingonlylight，wasmorealarmingthanadozenghosts，ashewaspowerlesstomakeoutwhatitmeant，orwouldbeat；andwassometimesapprehensivethathemightbeatthatverymomentaninterestingcaseofspontaneouscombustion，withouthavingtheconsolationofknowingit.Atlast，however，hebegantothink—asyouorIwouldhavethoughtatfirst；foritisalwaysthepersonnotinthepredicamentwhoknowswhatoughttohavebeendoneinit，andwouldunquestionablyhavedoneittoo—atlastIsay，hebegantothinkthatthesourceandsecretofthisghostlylightmightbeintheadjoiningroom，fromwhence，onfurthertracingit，itseemedtoshine.Thisideatakingfullpossessionofhismind，hegotupsoftlyandshuffledinhisslipperstothedoor.

ThemomentScroogeshandwasonthelock，astrangevoicecalledhimbyhisname，andbadehimenter.Heobeyed.

Itwashisownroom.Therewasnodoubtaboutthat.Butithadundergoneasurprisingtransformation.Thewallsandceilingweresohungwithlivinggreen，thatitlookedaperfectgrove；fromeverypartofwhich，brightgleamingberriesglistened.Thecrispleavesofholly，mistletoe，andivyreflectedbackthelight，asifsomanylittlemirrorshadbeenscatteredthere；andsuchamightyblazewentroaringupthechimney，asthatdullpetrifactionofahearthhadneverknowninScrooge’stime，orMarley’s，orformanyandmanyawinterseasongone.Heapeduponthefloor，toformakindofthrone，wereturkeys，geese，game，poultry，brawn，greatjointsofmeat，sucking-pigs，longwreathsofsausages，mince-pies，plum-pud-dings，barrelsofoysters，red-hotchestnuts，cherry-cheekedapples，juicyoranges，lusciouspears，immensetwelfth-cakes，andseethingbowlsofpunch，thatmadethechamberdimwiththeirdelicioussteam.Ineasystateuponthiscouch，theresatajollygiant，glorioustosee；whoboreaglowingtorch，inshapenotunlikePlenty’shorn，andhelditup，highup，tosheditslightonScrooge，ashecamepeepingroundthedoor.

“Comein！”

exclaimedtheghost.“Comein！

andknowmebetter，man！”

Scroogeenteredtimidly，andhunghisheadbeforethisspirit.HewasnotthedoggedScroogehehadbeen；andthoughthespirit’seyeswereclearandkind，hedidnotliketomeetthem.

“IamtheGhostofChristmasPresent，”

saidthespirit.“Lookuponme！”

Scroogereverentlydidso.Itwasclothedinonesimple，deep-greenrobe，ormantle，borderedwithwhitefur.Thisgarmenthungsolooselyonthefigure，thatitscapaciousbreastwasbare，asifdisdainingtobewardedorconcealedbyanyartifice.Itsfeet，observablebeneaththeamplefoldsofthegarment，werealsobare；andonitsheaditworenoothercoveringthanahollywreath，sethereandtherewithshiningicicles.Itsdark-browncurlswerelongandfree；freeasitsgenialface，itssparklingeye，itsopenhand，itscheeryvoice，itsunconstraineddemeanour，anditsjoyfulair.Girdedrounditsmiddlewasanantiquescabbard；butnoswordwasinit，andtheancientsheathwaseatenupwithrust.

“Youhaveneverseenthelikeofmebefore！”

exclaimedthespirit.

“Never，Scroogemadeanswertoit.

“Haveneverwalkedforthwiththeyoungermembersofmyfamily；meaning（forIamveryyoung）myelderbrothersbornintheselateryears？”

pursuedthephantom.

“Idon’tthinkIhave，”

saidScrooge.“IamafraidIhavenot.Haveyouhadmanybrothers，spirit？”

“Morethaneighteenhundred，”

saidtheghost.

“Atremendousfamilytoprovidefor！”

mutteredScrooge.

TheGhostofChristmasPresentrose.

“Spirit，”

saidScroogesubmissively，“conductmewhereyouwill.Iwentforthlastnightoncompulsion，andIlearnedalessonwhichisworkingnow.To-night，ifyouhaveaughttoteachme，letmeprofitbyit.”

“Touchmyrobe！”

Scroogedidashewastold，andhelditfast.

Holly，mistletoe，redberries，ivy，turkeys，geese，game，poultry，brawn，meat，pigs，sausages，oysters，pies，puddings，fruit，andpunch，allvanishedinstantly.Sodidtheroom，thefire，theruddyglow，thehourofnight，andtheystoodinthecitystreetsonChristmasmorning，where（fortheweatherwassevere）thepeoplemadearough，butbriskandnotunpleasant，kindofmusic，inscrapingthesnowfromthepavementinfrontoftheirdwellings，andfromthetopsoftheirhouses，whenceitwasmaddelighttotheboystoseeitcomeplumpingdownintotheroadbelow，andsplittingintoartificiallittlesnow-storms.

Thehousefrontslookedblackenough，andthewindowsblacker，contrastingwiththesmoothwhitesheetofsnowupontheroofs，andwiththedirtiersnowupontheground；whichlastdeposithadbeenploughedupindeepfurrowsbytheheavywheelsofcartsandwagons；furrowsthatcrossedandrecrossedeachotherhundredsoftimeswherethegreatstreetsbranehedoff；andmadeintricatechannels，hardtotrace，inthethickyellowmudandicywater.Theskywasgloomy，andtheshorteststreetswerechokedupwithadingymist，halfthawed，halffrozen，whoseheavierparticlesdescendedinashowerofsootyatoms，asifallthechimneysinGreatBritainhad，byoneconsent，caughtfire，andwereblazingawaytotheirdearhearts，content.Therewasnothingverycheerfulintheclimateorthetown，andyettherewasanairofcheerfulnessabroadthattheclearestsummerairandbrightestsummersunmighthaveendeavouredtodiffuseinvain.

Forthepeoplewhowereshovellingawayonthehousetopswerejovialandfullofglee；callingouttooneanotherfromtheparapets，andnowandthenexchangingafacetioussnow-ball—better-naturedmissilefarthanmanyawordyjest—laughingheartilyifitwentright，andnotlessheartilyifitwentwrong.Thepoulterers’shopswerestillhalfopen，andthefruiterers’wereradiantintheirglory.Thereweregreat，round，potbelliedbasketsofchestnuts，shapedlikethewaistcoatsofjollyoldgentlemen，lollingatthedoors，andtumblingoutintothestreetintheirapoplecticopulence.Therewereruddy，brown-faced，broad-girthedSpanishonions，shininginthefatnessoftheirgrowthlikeSpanishfriars，andwinkingfromtheirshelvesinwantonslynessatthegirlsastheywentby，andglanceddemurelyatthehung-upmistletoe.Therewerepearsandapples，clusteredhighinbloomingpyramids；therewerebunchesofgrapes，made，intheshopkeepers，benevolence，todanglefromconspicuoushooks，thatpeople’smouthsmightwatergratisastheypassed；therewerepilesoffilberts，mossyandbrown，recalling，intheirfragrance，ancientwalksamongthewoods，andpleasantshufflingsankle-deepthroughwitheredleaves；therewereNorfolkbiffins，squabandswarthy，settingofftheyellowoftheorangesandlemons，and，inthegreatcompactnessoftheirjuicypersons，urgentlyentreatingandbeseechingtobecarriedhomeinpaper-bagsandeatenafterdinner.Theverygoldandsilverfish，setforthamongthesechoicefruitsinabowl，thoughmembersofadullandstagnant-bloodedrace，appearedtoknowthattherewassomethinggoingon；and，toafish，wentgaspingroundandroundtheirlittleworldinslowandpassionlessexcitement.

Thegrocers’！

oh，thegrocers’！

nearlyclosed，withperhapstwoshuttersdown，orone；butthroughthosegapssuchglimpses！

Itwasnotalonethatthescalesdescendingonthecountermadeamerrysound，orthatthetwineandrollerpartedcompanysobriskly，orthatthecanisterswererattledupanddownlikejugglingtricks，oreventhattheblendedscentsofteaandcoffeeweresogratefultothenose，oreventhattheraisinsweresoplentifulandrare，thealmondssoextremelywhite，thesticksofcinnamonsolongandstraight，theotherspicessodelicious，thecandiedfruitssocakedandspottedwithmoltensugarastomakethecoldestlookers-onfeelfaintandsubsequentlybilious.Norwasitthatthefigsweremoistandpulpy，orthattheFrenchplumsblushedinmodesttartnessfromtheirhighlydecoratedboxes，orthateverythingwasgoodtoeatandinitsChristmasdress.Butthecustomerswereallsohurriedandsoeagerinthehopefulpromiseoftheday，thattheytumbledupagainsteachotheratthedoor，crashingtheirwickerbasketswildly，andlefttheirpurchasesuponthecounter，andcamerunningbacktofetchthem，andcommittedhundredsofthelikemistakes，inthebesthumourpossible；whilethegrocerandhispeopleweresofrankandfreshthatthepolishedheartswithwhichtheyfastenedtheirapronsbehindmighthavebeentheirown，wornoutsideforgeneralinspection，andforChristmasdawstopeckatiftheychose.