Stave Oxe（第4/8页）

Foggier yet，and colder！Piercing，searching，biting cold. If the good St. Dunstan had but nipped the evil spirit’s nose with a touch of such weather as that，instead of using his familiar weapons，then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose，gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs，stooped down at Scrooge’s keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol；but at the first sound of—

“God bless you，merry gentleman！

May nothing you dismay！”

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action，that the singer fled in terror，leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost.

At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool，and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the tank，who instantly snuffed his candle out，and put on his hat.

“You’ll want all day to-morrow，I suppose？” said Scrooge.

“ If quite convenient，sir.”

“ It’s not convenient，” said Scrooge，“ and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it，you’d think yourself ill-used，I’ll be bound ？ ”

The clerk smiled faintly.

“ And yet，”said Scrooge，“ you don’t think me ill-used，when I pay a day’s wages for no work.”

The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

“ A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December！” said Scrooge，buttoning his greatcoat to the chin. “ But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning.”

The clerk promised that he would；and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling，and the clerk，with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist （for he boasted no greatcoat），went down a slide on Cornhill，at the end of a lane of boys，twenty times，in honour of its being Christmas Eve，and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt，to play at blind-man’s buff.

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern；and having read all the news papers，and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s book，went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms，in a lowering pile of building up a yard，where it had so little business to be，that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house，playing at hide-and-seek with other houses，and have forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now，and dreary enough，for nobody lived in it but Scrooge，the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge，who knew its every stone，was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house，that it seemed as if the genius of the weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold.

Now，it is a fact that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door，except that it was very large. It is also a fact that Scrooge had seen it，night and morning，during his whole residence in that place；also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London，even including—which is a bold word—the corporation，aldermen，and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley，since his last mention of his seven-years dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me，if he can，how it happened that Scrooge，having his key in the lock of the door，saw in the knocker，without its undergoing any intermediate process of change—not a knocker，but Marley’s face.

Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were，but had a dismal light about it，like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious，but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look，with ghostly spectacles turned up on his ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred，as if by breath or hot air；and，though the eyes were wide open，they were perfectly motionless. That，and its livid colour，made it horrible；but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control，rather than a part of its own expression.

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon，it was a knocker again.

To say that he was not startled，or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy，would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished，turned it sturdily，walked in，and lighted his candle.

He did pause，with a moment s irresolution，before he shut the door；and he did look cautiously behind it first，as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley’s pigtail sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door，except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on，so he said，“ Pooh，pooh！” and closed it with a bang.