Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the SeasonFenn, George Manville
General
Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season
Fenn, George Manville
Christmas stories; Fiction; Poetry; Short stories
I took no notice then though, for something was working in me, and at
last I told her to go to bed, and she did, while I sat before the bit of
fire in the room and thought it over.
Now don't laugh at me when I tell you that I believe in bells, but I
can't help it if you do, for they always seem to speak to me like music
does, and if there's ever anything will act on me it's the sound of a
peal of bells. It was bitter cold that night, and yet I didn't feel it;
the wind howled along the street, and I could now and then hear the
great flakes of snow come softly patting at the window, and then the
sashes would shake, and the wind rumble in the chimney, while every now
and then came the sound of the bells, not bright and joyful, but sad and
sobbing and mournful. I knew it was a merry, rejoicing time with every
one else. I could not attend to that, for I was gradually getting to
see one thing that I kept on fighting against, and that was, what a fool
I had been.
Fight against it I did, but it was no use, for as the streets got more
quiet, and the wind sunk, the bells rang out clearer and clearer, and
seemed to keep telling me of it. Now I knew of it by the threepence in
my pocket; now it was by the shabby floor; then the beggarly furniture
and the miserable fire; and though I didn't cross the room I had it in
my mind's eye, and there it all was written plain enough in my wife's
face.
And yet I wouldn't own to it, though the bells seemed to be speaking to
me, and rang out plainer and plainer all my waste and carelessness, till
all at once they stopped for a minute; when one big bell began to toll
slowly, "boom, boom, boom"; and that did it, for the next moment I gave
a wild sort of cry, and was down on my knees with my hands over my face,
and the big tears, hot and blinding, bursting out from between my
fingers. But the tears might blind, they could not hide that, though
every one seemed like hot lead. They could not hide what I then saw,
for the bell still went on, now swept away in the distance, now coming
nearer and nearer, till it filled the room, and made the very place seem
to tremble and quiver, as did every nerve in my body.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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