Read Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol for Free Online Page B

“Have you another card, sir?” he asked.
    Tim withdrew a card from his jacket, and the butler studied it carefully. “I see,” he murmured at last. “Follow me, sir.” He led Tim to the corridor, then paused because he had no idea where Jane’s room was. He was saved by the tap of the knocker on the front door. “I must answer that, sir. I trust you can find your way,” he said, then thrust out his hand for a gratuity. The man was insufferable, Tim thought, but decided it was well worth a shilling to be rid of him, and dropped a coin in the man’s palm. Pulling his head back stiffly, the butler turned and descended the stairs without a word of thanks.
    Tim walked slowly down the dimly lit passage, looking at the doors on his left. When he reached the last, he knocked softly, not wishing to disturb Jane in case she was getting some much-needed sleep. A moment later he heard a plaintive voice.
    â€œYes, Mother, I’ll be right there.”
    Slowly the door swung back, revealing a young woman who looked even worse than she had the day before. Her eyes were downcast, and her expression conveyed a mixture of frustration and resignation. She halted when she saw a man’s boots, and lifted her face. When she recognized Tim, her frown vanished, replaced by a smile that seemed to wash away the anger and despair from her features.
    â€œWhy, Dr. Cratchit!” she exclaimed. “This is quite a surprise.”
    Tim responded with the line he had rehearsed. “I wanted to thank you for inviting me to the party, Miss Crompton. And please, call me Tim.”
    Jane knew that it was improper for a young woman of her station to invite a man into her room, but she had no wish to go into the drawing room with Tim and risk being spotted by her mother, who would undoubtedly find a dozen new tasks for her. She quickly compromised by leading Tim downstairs to the dining room. They passed the butler, who was escorting an elderly couple up to the drawing room and gave them a tight-lipped smile.
    The dining room was large and lavishly furnished. A mahogany table that Tim estimated was at least twenty feet in length occupied the center atop a multihued Persian carpet. Six chairs stood on each side, and one at each end. Set off from the dining area by a folding screen, two armchairs upholstered in blue velvet occupied the space at the end of the room in front of the large bay window; heavy drapes of matching fabric with gold trim were closed to keep the room dark. A small, square cherrywood table stood between the armchairs. Atop it were an oil lamp and a leatherbound book. Jane pointed Tim toward that corner of the room, lit a gas lamp mounted on the wall alongside the door, and sat. A massive fireplace carved from pink marble occupied most of the wall opposite the door. A three-foot by four-foot oil painting of Mrs. Crompton stared at them from above the mantel. The artist had used all his skills to flatter his subject, but his brush could not conceal all of the harshness in the woman’s features.
    Despite the small fire that still burned, the room was chilly. Before sitting down, Tim took the coal shovel and added fuel from the scuttle.
    â€œI’m so glad you came to the party, Doctor,” Jane declared with sincerity. “I hope you’ve been enjoying yourself.”
    Tim had also rehearsed his part of the anticipated conversation, but in Jane’s presence, he could not recall his practiced lines. In the soft light of the gas lamp, even with her pale skin, dark circles under her eyes, and drab black frock, she looked beautiful. His eyes locked upon her face, noting the firm chin, small mouth, and elegant cheekbones. Then, realizing that Jane was waiting for his reply, he remarked that it was a very nice party, and picked up the book on the table as if that were what had distracted him.
    â€œ Hard Times ,” he said, reading the title, noting that it was written by the