Caroline started at every sound; looked out from the window; glanced at the clock; and tried, in vain, to settle. That she was expecting him and was waiting with anxious dread was obvious. At length the long-expected footsteps were heard on the stairs. She faced the door and met her husband.

“Madam,” he ground out, but could say no more. It was clear that he was furious. He began to pace the room in a vain effort to relieve some of the anger. Finally, stopping before Caroline, he began to question her in a harsh voice, “Why, Caroline? Why did you not summon me earlier? Why must I learn from your brother that my son was ill? And what do I find when I arrive at your home? That not only was he very ill, but dying.”

“That is not true.”

“It is true. Our marriage has long been over, but I am still his father. You stole what time I could have spent with Charles by keeping his illness from me. I do not believe I can forgive you for that.”

“Darcy, it was not like that. I did not know the seriousness of his illness at first…”

“But when you did, you still kept quiet. I do not believe you intended to inform me at all. I expect you planned to send a note stating ‘Charles cannot come to Pemberley this spring. He is dead. Madame Bertine’s bill has not yet been paid, could you see to it?’”

“That was vicious,” Caroline felt her own anger rising over the heart-stopping grief. “I will not justify my actions now. I am Charles’s mother; I did what I thought best for him. Now I wish to see my son.”

Darcy block her way, “No, you cannot see him. Not now. I will not have you contaminate the room where he lies.”

Caroline felt shattered. All the dreams and fantasies she had still cherished of what it meant to be Mrs. Darcy broke to pieces like fragile glass. It angered her; in fact, everything angered her: her shattered schemes, the illness that ate away at her son, the man before her. Caroline looked him in the eye and spoke quietly, “You wish to know why? I was jealous. You called for her in your sleep, not once but many times. You should have married her when you had the chance. My disposition does not take well to being second best, so that my regard for you diminished as my jealousy grew. But I triumphed over her, because I had your child. A feat she could not accomplish. I am his mother, Darcy, and I did everything within my power to see that he would be well again. I had no wish to bring you and your ghost back into my life at such a trying time. Now, I am going to attend my son.” With these words she left him alone. The slam of the door echoed in Darcy’s ears.

Darcy seated himself before the fire and lingered there for some time before he went upstairs into his child’s bedchamber above. The Spirit and Darcy followed. The room was lighted cheerfully and hung with the trappings of Christmas. Thankfully, Caroline was no longer there. A chair was set close beside the child. His other self sat down in it and gently reached for the child’s hand while Darcy and the Spirit watched from the opposite side of the bed. When he had composed himself, Darcy looked down on the little face. It was a face that he had never seen before, yet it seemed intimately familiar and dear. He felt a lump rise in his throat and his eyes were suddenly scratchy and wet.

The child looked up at Darcy, “Papa, I wanted to go home for Christmas.”

“Next year, my boy, when you are well again.”

“Can I have a puppy and a pony?” he asked.

“Without a doubt. And what will you call them?”

“Chestnut and Pudding,” came the reply after some thought.

“Very good names, I am sure, but which is for the pony and which is for the puppy?” Darcy asked.

“How will I know until I see them?” young Charles reasoned. The Spirit laid a bony hand on the child’s brow, and he began to cough. Darcy watched as his older self and Caroline took turns looking after the boy. Days seemed to pass before his eyes. Every so often the Spirit touched the child and his conditioned worsened. Finally, Darcy could take no more and cried out, “Cease tormenting the child.”

The Spirit looked at Darcy and grinned. She laid an emaciated hand on the child’s chest and the breathing ceased.

“No!” both Darcys cried in unison.

The future Darcy broke down. He couldn’t help it. Over the last several days he had watched his son die before his very eyes and felt totally helpless.

Darcy turned angrily on the Spirit and spoke through gritted teeth. “How could you? I did not want the child to die. Am I to blame for his passing now?”

The Spirit remained silent, as if his questions were of no account. Instead, she moved them into the study to witness another form of death.

His other self sat behind a desk. A pale Caroline, dressed in severe black, sat across from him and asked him faintly, “What is it that you wish of me?”

“I will make the funeral arrangements,” Darcy answered in a choked voice. “After it is over, I wish you to leave. I do not care where you go. You will be attended to, wherever it is you settle. If I never see you again it will be too soon, Caroline!”

“Then I will leave your life for good. Strange how it is only now that I realize how much time I have wasted on what might been.” And she walked out of the room.

“Spirit, I wish to leave here now.” She nodded in agreement. He was grateful when he and the Spirit left the scene and went into the small kitchen of some unknown house.

Sitting by a fireplace was a grey-haired man, nearly seventy years of age, smoking his pipe.

Darcy and the Phantom came into the presence of this man; a woman came into the room, carrying a bundle, but she had scarcely entered when another woman came in too and a man in black closely followed her.

“What is the world coming to, Joe?” Mrs. Dilber asked the old man. “The missus is dying and her brother won’t come, even though she asks and asks!”

“That’s true, indeed!” said Mrs. Launders. “No man is more stubborn than he. Disowned the missus when she married the master, God keep his soul. He wasn’t good enough for their fine bloodstock.”

“Nor was he rich enough neither,” said the man in black.

“No, indeed, Henry! Not good enough for the likes of him,” said Mrs. Dilber.

“He will be the worse for the loss of a sister,” Henry informed them.

“Indeed!” said Mrs. Dilber in complete agreement.

“He wanted to keep ’em apart, the master and the missus. He is a wicked old screw,” pursued the woman. “Why isn’t he more natural? If he was, he’d be here to look after his sister when she is struck with Death. Instead she is all alone, except for us.”

“It’s the truest word that ever was spoke,” said Mrs. Dilber. “It will be a judgment on him.”

“I hope he does get his just deserts,” said old Joe, stopping in his task and looking up at them.

“Me too,” returned the woman. “I ain’t so fond of his company that I’d loiter about looking for him, but if he does come my way, well then, I shall certainly give him what for.”

Mrs. Launders picked up the bundle and shook it out. “Ah, you may look through this dress till your eyes ache, but you won’t find a hole in it nor a threadbare place. It’s the best she had, and a fine one too.”

“So it is,” said old Joe.

“She is to be buried in it, to be sure,” replied the woman with a sob.

Recovering, Mrs. Launders spoke again. “This is not the end of it, you’ll see! He will frighten everyone away from him and then he will end up all alone. Serves him right, I say. I just wish I knew what is to become of young Freddy.”

“Spirit!” said Darcy, shuddering from head to foot. “Merciful Heaven, what is this about?” For Darcy was again in the drawing room of his London mansion. But now the room was made horrible by obvious neglect. The wallpaper was peeling, the furniture was undusted, the windows grimy, the curtains torn and tattered.

Darcy gasped as he saw the owner of the house sitting by a meager fire. It was himself; he knew it was himself, though he aged at least thirty years!

A young man came into the room. “A Merry Christmas, Uncle! God save you!” cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Darcy’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

“Bah!” said Darcy. “Humbug!”

This nephew-to-be of Darcy had a face that was ruddy and handsome. He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost that his eyes sparkled from the exercise. He reminded Darcy of his cousin Fitzwilliam.

“Christmas a humbug, Uncle!” said Darcy’s nephew. “You do not mean that, I am sure.”

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

“Come now, I am not a pauper by any means. My mother saw that I was provided for; if not rich, I am certainly comfortable,” returned the nephew gaily. “I might ask what right have you to be so dismal and morose? You’re rich enough.”

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

“Do not be cross, Uncle,” said the nephew.

“What else can I be,” returned the uncle, “when I live in such a world of fools who believe in a Merry Christmas? And I suppose you believe in Father Christmas too.”

“Oh, without a doubt, Uncle, I believe.”

“I say, out upon Merry Christmas. What is Christmas time to you but a time for frittering away money on needless things; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour wiser? If I could work my will,” said Darcy 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.”