MY CHRISTMAS BURGLARY.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXXIII, Issue 3711, 21 December 1912, Page 20

MY CHRISTMAS BURGLARY.

BY “Q.”

I had conic with high expectations : for Mr. Felix, a bachelor of sixty-five, was reputed to have made for thirty years this particular cabinet his idol.

Any nabob or millionaire can collect. Mr. Felix, being moderately well-to-do, had selected. He would have none but the best ! and the best laystored delicately on cotton-wool, ticketed with the tiniest handwriting, in a nest of drawers I could have unlocked with a hair-pin. The topmost drawer contained scarabs (of which 1 am no connoisseur) ; tlie second some two dozen intaglios, and of these by the light of my bull’s eye lantern. I examined five or six before sweeping the lot into mv bag— Europe and the Bull. Ganymede in the eagle’s claw, Agare carrying the head of Pentheus, Icarus with relaxed wing dropping headlong to a sea represented by one wavy line; each and all priceless. In the third drawer lay an unset emerald, worth a king’s ransom, a clasp of two amethysts, and a necklace of black pearls graduated to a hair's breadth; these only, and (as I guessed) because they disdained tlie company of inferior gems. By this time I could see—l read it- even in the exquisite -parsimony of the collection—that I had to deal with an artist, and sighed that in this world artists should prey upon one another. The fourth d rawer was reserved for miniatures, the most of them circleted with diamonds ; the fifth for snuffboxes, gold snuff-boxes bearing roval cyphers, snuff-boxes of tortoise-shell and gold, snuff-boxes of blue enamel set with diamonds. A couple of these chinked together as they dropped into tne bag. The sound startled me, and I paused for a moment to look over mv shoulder.

The window stood open as I left it. Outside, in the windless frosty night, the snow on the house-roofs sparkled under a wintering moon now near the close of her first quarter. But, though the night was windless, a current of air poured into the room, and had set a flame dancing in the fireplace where, three minutes ago, the sea-coals had held but a feeble glow, half sullen. Down stairs, in some distant apartment, fiddles were busy with a waltz tune, and a violon-cello kept the beat with a low thudding pizzacato. For Mr. Felix was giving a Christmas party. I turned from this hasty glance to pick up another snuff-box. As my fingers closed on it the music snddenlv grew louder, and I looked up as the door opened, and a man stood on the threshold—a short, square-set man, dressed in black.

“Eh?” He, gave a little Hart of surprise. “No, no, excuse mo, my friend, but- yo\i are seeking in the wrong’ cabinet.” Before I could pull myself together, he had stepped to the window and closed it. “You had best keep still,” he said; “and then we can talk. There are servants on the stairs below and should you attempt the way you came, there are three constables just around the corner. I hired them to regulate the carnage traffic: but now that the last guest has arrived, they will be cooling their heels for a spell, and 1 have a whistle. I have also a pistol.”

With a turn of his hand he flung open a door in a dark armoire beside thy window, dived his hand into a recess, and produced the weapon. “And it is loaded.” he added, still in the same business-like voice, in which, after his first brief exclamation, rny ear detectod no tremor.' “By all means let us talk,” I said. He was crossing to the fireplace, but wheeled about sharply at the sound of my voice. “Eh? 1 An educated man, apparently!” Laying the pistol on the mantel-shelf, he plucked a twisted spill of paper from, a vase near by, stooped, ignited it from the flame dancing in the sea-coals, and proceeded to light the candles in an old-fash-ioned girandole that overhung the fireplace. There-were five candles, and he lit them all. They revealed him a clean-shaven, white-haired man. meticnlouslv dressed in ‘black —black swallow-tail coat, open waistcoat, and frilled shirt-front, on which his laundress must have spent hours of labor; closely (fitting black kiiee-breech.es, black silk stockings,

(Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch.)

black shoes. They silhouetted, too, in the moment before ho swung round* on me; an enormous nose, like a puncliinello’s, and the outline of a shapely head, sufficiently massive to counterbalance and save it from caricature. The size” of the head again would have suggested deformity, but for the broad shoulders that carried it. As he faced me squarely with his hack to the hearth, his chest and shoulders narrowing to the hips ns of a,runner, and still narrowing (though he stood astraddle) to ankles and feet that would not have disgraced, a lady, h? put me in mind of a matador I had seen years before, facing his bull in the ring at Seville. The firelight behind them emphasised the neat outline of his legs. ITp carried a black cloak on his left arm. and in his left hand an opera hat, pressed fiat against his left side. In closing the window, in finding and producing the pistol,’ and again in lighting the candles' he had used his right hand only. “A gentleman P’ - he asked, contracting his brows and eyeing me. “Well,” said 1, with an uncomfortable, nervous laugh, that itself accused my breeding, so inferior it was to the situation, “possibly you are one of thosic who mix up the name with moral conduct ” ‘ t “To some extent.”.. lie answered, without seeming to interrupt. “Everyone does, I fan°v.”

“At any rate I won't challenge it.” said I. “’But- you may, if you will, call me a man of some education. I was at Magdalen once, but left Oxford without taking my degree. - “Ah !” He inclined his head a little to one side. “Cards?” "Certainly not,” I answered with heat. “I own that appearances are against me, but I was never that kind of man. As a matter of fact, it happened over <a horse.”

He nodded. “So you, top, though you won’t challenge the name, have to mix up moral conduct with your disposition. "We draw the line variously, but everyone draws it somewhere. . . Magdalen, hey? If I mistake not, the f-ofuncla,t-ioners of Magdalen—including, perhaps, some who were undsrgarduates with you —are assembled in the'college hall-at this moment to celebrate Christmas. and hear the choir sing Pergolesi’s Gloria.”

“The reminder hurts me.” said 1. “ —if that be any gratification to you.” “A sentimentalist?" Mr. Felix's eyes twinkled. “Better and better! 1 have tho very job for you—but we will discuss that by and by. Only let me say tnat you must have dropped on me, just now, from heaven- —you really must. But please don’t make a practice of it 1 I have invested too much in my curious: and others have invested more. . . . That snuff-box

for instance, which you were handling a moment ago. S . ;it one time in its history it cost —ay. and fetched—close on two hundred millions of money.” I’began to have r.opcs that I was dealing with a madman. “Or rather,” he corrected himself, “the money was paid for a. pinch of the snuff it contains. _ Open it, carefully, if you please! —and you will behold the genuine ra.ppee, the very

particles over which France fought with Austria. What says Virgil ? ‘Hi motus animorum atque heiic certamina tanta Pulveris exigui jactu’ —yes, but in this instance, you see, the pinch of dust was the exciting cause. Sir, the Austrian ambassador one fatal afternoon, refused to take from the box in your hand that which, three weeks later, and all too late, he would gladly have purchased with many millions. Observe the imperial crown on the, lid, with the bees around it, as if to illustrate Virgil’s warning. I bought the tliing-'inysel.f, sir, for six napoleons, off a dealer in the Rue do Foil a ire; but the price will rise again. Yes, certainly, I count on its fetching three hundred pounds at least when I have departed this life, and three hundred pounds will go some little way towards my ; monument. . - “Your monument?” I.echoed. He nodded again. “Tn good time, my friend, you shall hear about it; for you make, I perceive, a good listener. You . have gifts, though you do less :S .. - *

than justice to them. Suffice it to say that 1 am a sentimentalist, like yourself.’ I never married nor begat children; and I have but a shaky belief in the future state; but my sentimentality _ hankers after—you may even say it postulates—some kind of .continuity. 1 cannot discuss this here and now, for by the sound of the violins, the dance is coming to an end, and my guests will be growing impatient. But you remember Samson’s riddle? Well, out.of my corpse (I trust) shall come forth honey; whereas out of yours, unless''you employ your talents better ’’ ' He broke off, and stepped up close to me. “Ah, but excuse me,” he said, and, reaching out a hand, caught me suddenly by the collar. The arrest—l made sure it was an arrest—took me unprepared, and threw me off my balance. I broke away a pace, drawing back my fist to strike: and in that moment.l felt his hand relax with a curious fluttering movement as though -his fingers drummed on the back of my neck. I heard him laugh, too : and before I could hit out lie- sprang back, holdinn in his hand a white rabbit! ‘

“An old trick—eh?—and a. simple one.” Ho pressed out tlie spring of his opera hat, dropped the rabbit inside, dived his hand after it, and drew out two white rabbits by the ears., “But it u'ill amuse my young friends downstairs, and I practice this kind of thing at- odd whiles.” He set the rabbits on the floor, where they gave themselves a shake, and hopped off toward the shelter of the window curtains. “Now you are the very mail I wanted,” he said, “and I am going to make von sing for your supper.” Ho stepped to the armoire, and drew out a long cloak of scarlet, furred with ermine. “I had meant to wear this myself;” lie went on ; but stopped all of a sudden at sight of my face, and began to laugh quietly, in a way that made mo long to take him bv the throat. “Dear me, dear me! I understand ! Association of ideas— Court of Assize eh? But this is no judi r 'ial robe, my friend: .it belongs to Father Christmas. Here’s his wig now-—quite another sort of wig, you perceive—with a. holly wreath around it. And here’s his beard, beautifully frosted with silver.” He held wig and beard towards the window, and let the moonlight- play over them. “Or with them, quick! . . . . And the boots.” Again he dived into the armoire. and produced a pair of Bluchers, the long ankle leathers gummed over with cotton-wool, to represent snow. It’s lucky they reach a good way up the leg, seeing the cloak is a trifle short for a man of your inches.” He stepped back a pace and surveyed me as I fitted on the beard.

“There are punishments ana punishments,” said 1. “And I hope, whatever your game may be, you will remember that there’s punishment in dressing up like a tom-fool.” “Ah, but you’ll catch the- spirit of it” he assured me: and then, rubbing his hands, he appeared to muse for a moment. “I ought,” said lie, with a glance towards the fireplace, “I really ought to send Father Christmas down

by way of the chimney. • The flue opens just,above here, and I believe it would accommodate you; but T am not very sure if my housekeeper had it swept last spring. No,” he decided, “the music has ceased, and we must lose no time. I will spurs yon the chimney.” He called to his rabbits, picked them up as they came hopping from behind the curtains, popped them into his hat, shut it with a snap, and lo! they had vanished. “Y T ou’ll excuse me,” I ventured, as ho stepped to the door; “but —but tjie —the few articles here in the bag ’ “(sh, bring them along with you: bring them along by all means! We may have a present or two to make, down below.”

’ From the head of the staircase we looked down into a hall gaily lit with paper lanterns. Holly and ivy wreathed the broad balustrade and the old pictures around the walls. A bunch of mistletoe hung from a great chandelier that sparkled with hundreds of glass prisms, and under it a couple of footmen in gilt liveries and powder crossed at that moment with trays of jellies and syllabubs.

They were well-trained footmen, too; for at sight of me descending the stairs in my idiotic outfit they betrayed no surprise at all. One of them set his tray down on a table, stepped neatly ahead as Mr. Felix reached the lowest stair, and opened a door for us on the right. - I found myself at a stand on the threshold, blinking at a, blaze of light, and staring up a perspective of waxed floor at a miniature stage which filled the far end of the room. Li&ht, as everyone knows, travels farther than sound: were it not so, I should say that almost ahead of the blaze there broke on us a. din of voices—of happy children's voices. Certainly it stunned my oars before I had time to blink. The room was lined with children — scores of children: and some of them were gathered in little groups, and some of them, panting and laughing from their dance, had dropped into the chairs, ranged along the walls. ;:But these were the minority. The. most of the guests lay in cots, or sat with crutches beside them, or v»th hands dropped in their laps. These last were tho blind ones. I do not sot up to he a lover‘of children : lmt the discovery that the most of these small guests were crippled hit me with a kind of pitiful awe; and right on top\

of it came a second and worse shock, to note how many of them were blind. To me those blind eyes were the only merciful ones, as Mr. Felix beckoned Father Christmas to follow him up to the stage between the two lines of curious gazers. “0-oh !” had been their first cry, as they caught sight of me in the doorway: and ‘ ‘O-oh ! 1 heard them murmuring, child after child, in long-drawn l'ague, as we made our way up the long length of the room that winked detection" from every candle, every reflector, every foot of its polished floor. We gained the stair together by a short stairway draped with flags. Mr Felix with a wave of his opera hat, called on the orchestra to strike up “A ldne Old English Gentleman” (meaning me or, if you like it, Father Christmas: and I leave you to picture the fool I looked). Then, stepping to the footlights, he introduced me, explaining that he had met me Wandering upstairs, rifling his most secret drawers to fill my bag with seasonable presents for them. Five or six times he interrupted his patter to pluck a cracker or a bon-bon out of my beard, and toss it down to his audience. The children gasped at first, and stared at the magic spoil on the floor. By-and-by one adventurous little girl crept forward, and picked up a cracker, and her cry of delight as she discovered that it was real, gave the signal for a general scramble. Mr. Felix continued his patter without seeming to heed it; but his hand went up faster and faster to mv heard and wig, and soon the cracker's were falling in showers. I saw children snatch them off the floor and carry them to their blind brothers and sisters, pressing them between the wondering, groping hands with assurance that they were real. . . Mr. Felix saw it, too, and his flow' of words ceased with a gulp, as though a flowing spring gurgled suddenly, and withdrew itself underground. “I am a sentimentalist,” he said to me quickly, in a pause, which nobody heeded; for by this time crackers w'ere banging to right and left, and the children shouting together. Their shouts rose to one yell of Laughter as, recovering himself, he dived at my neck, and produced the two struggling.rabbits. His opera hat opened with a. snap, and in they went. A second Later it shut flat again, and they were gone, into thin air. He opened the hat with a puzzled frown, plunged a hand, and dragged forth varcl upon yard of ribbon —red, green, whits, blue, yellow ribbon, mixed up with packs of playing cards that, with a turn of the hand lie sent spinning into air, to fall thick as leaves in Vail ’ombrosa. “Your turn!” he panted as, at the end of the ribbon he lugged out an enormous cabbage, and trundled it down the room. Catching my bag from he, he shook his cloak over it once, and returned it to my hands, bulging, stuffed full to tlie brom with toys—dolls, tops, whips, trunipets, boxes of animals. boxes of tin soldiers.

“Father Christmas, now! Make wav for Father Christmas!”

The infection took me, and stumb-

ling down from tho stage by the stairway. I fell to distributing the largesse left and right. The first bagful carried me less than a. third of the way down the room, for I gave with both hands, and, when a blind child fumbled long tvith it toy, dropped it at his feet, and tried another,, and yet another till his smile suited me. The dropped' toys lay where th-ey had fallen. The spirit of the game had made me reckless; and I halted with a cold shiver as my fingers touched the gems at the bottom of the bag, and, looking down the room, I was aware that my store was exhausted, and as yet twothirds of the children hhd received 1.0 gift. I turned —all in a cold shiver — to retrace my steps and pick up the toys at the blind children’s feet, and as' I did so. felt myself a bungler past pardon. But in the act of turning, I cast a look back at the stage; and there stood Mr Felix, nodding approval and beckoning. So. as in a dream. I went back. “Capital !” was his only comment. Taking my hag. lie passed his cloak over it again, and again handed it to me, stuffed to the brim.

Thrice I returned it to him; hut the third refill was a scanty one, since by this time there lacked hut half-a-scoro of the taller children to ho satisfied. To these, too, I distributed their gifts, and when every eager pair of hands had been laden. I wheeled about for the next word of command.

But Mr. Felix had skipped down from the stage, letting the curtain fall liehind him. He stood with his hack to me, waving both arms to the orchestra, and as tho musicians plunged at the opening bars of the Toy Symphony the curtain rose, almost as soon as it had dropped; and rose upon a scone representing a street with shops docked for Christmas, and snow upon their eaves and window ledges. Then, still to tho strains of the Toy Symphony, a Harlequin ran in. with a. Columbine, whom he twisted upon his. bent knee and tossed lightly through the upper window of a baker’s shot>, himself diving a moment later, with a slap of his wand, through the flap of a fishmonger's door, hard by. ■ Next, as on a frozen slide, lame the clown, with red-hot poker, the Pantaloon trinnine’dver his stick, and two Constables wteathed in strings of sausages. The Clown, boxed the Pantaloon’s ears; the Pantaloon passed on the buffet to the Constables, and all plunged together into .the fishmonrer’s. The Clown emerged running with

a stolen plaice, passed it into the hands of the. Pantaloon, who followed, and was in turn pursued off tne scene by the Constables; but the fishmonger issuing last in chase, ran into the Clown*, who caught up a barrel of red herrings and bonneted him. The fishmonger extricated himself, and the two began to pelt each other with herrings, while the children screamed with laughter. . . .

It was a famous harlequinade; and, as usual it concluded the entertainment. For,after a harlequinade, what can stand between a child and happy dreams? —especially if he got to them with his arms full of Christmas presents. Five minutes .after the curtain had fallen I found myself standing beside Mr. Felix in the hall, while he bade good-night to his guests. Carriages of his hiring had arrived for them, and the coachmen apparently had received their orders. A dozen well-trained nurses’ - moved about .the hall, and, having dressed the little ones—who bv this time were almost too drowsy with pleasure to thank their entertainer —carried them out into the portico, where the liveried footmen stood by the carriage doors. Slam ! went the doors, and one after another —with scarcely a word of corn-

mand —the carriages bowled off over tne thick snow.

When the last guest had gone, Mr Felix turned to me. “The play is over,” said he. “When 1 am gone, it will be repeated year after year at Christmas, at the Cripples’ Hospital. My will provides for that; and that will be my monument. But for a few years to come I hope to hold the entertainment here, in my own house. Come, you may take off your robe and wig and go in peace. I would fain have a talk with you, but I am tired, as perhaps you may guess. Go, then—and go in peace !” Motioning the footman to fall back, lie walked out with me and down tae steps of the portico, • but halted on the lowest step by the edge of the frozen snow: and with a wave of the hand dismissed me into the night. I had gained the end of the street, and the birdge that there spans “the river, before it occurred to me that I was carrying my bag. and —with a shock —that my bag still held the stolen jewels. By the second lamp on the bridge I halted, lifted the bag on the snowcovered parapet, thrust in a band, and drew forth —a herring !

Herrings—i*d herrings—filled to the brim. I dragged them forth, and rained handful after handful overboard into the black water. Still, below them. I had hoped to find the •■jewels. But the jewels were gone, at least, J supposed that all were gone, when—having jettisoned the last herring—l groped around the bottom of the bag. Something pricked my finger. I drew it oiit and held it under the lamp-light. It was a small turquoise brooch, sot around with diamonds. For at least two minutes I stared at it. there, under the lamp, had slipped it half-way into my waistcoatpocket ; but suddenly took a new resolve. and walked hack along the street to the house.

Mr. Felix yet stood on the lower step of the portico. Above him. still as a statue, a footman waited at the great house-door, until it should please his master to re-enter. “Excuse me. sir " I began, and held up the brooch.

“I meant it for you.” said Mr. Felix quietly, affably, “I gave precisely five pounds for it, at an auction: and I warn you that it is worth just thrice that sum. Still, if you would prefer ready money, as in your circumstances I daresay you do”— he felt in his breeches pocket— “here are the five sovereigns, and—once more—go in peace.”

once. • Even so sh« Pte , is barely respect-- u * “ Miss Metford sr m a-foro her escritoire, and wrote a ... to Edwin Clarke accepting his . op-dtion of marriage. Then she spent ,en minutes in deep thought and, laying tho note aside, Wrote another to Stephen Douglas accepting his proposition This, too, after reflection, he laid aside and wrote to Alfred j owning v ustating that she regretted Irbng been so harsh with him and that V. he was so minded she would ' pleased that their former pleas x relationship* should be renewed. Then she vowed that when the clock struck 9 gh ft would mail one of the three letters. That they might lye ready she addressed an envelope for each. During the interval she thought over the matter of suing for peace with her old lover. Downing, and vowed that she could not. would not cat humble pie. She would accept one of the other two men, and since both were well enough in t ! *eh- way she would, take the one with the largest income, Douglas. She was much rotated when-she took up/ one of the notes and threw the other two in tho waste-basket. Then, ringing for her maid, she gave her the letter to post and directed her to say to anyone who

might ask for her that she Lad gone to bed indisposed. It was midnight when 'die disrobed, and before doing so she thought she had better destroy the two letters she had net mailed. Taking up one, she glanced at the address. Stephen Clark and tore into bits. Then, taking up the other she started. “My good gracious!" The note was addressed to Douglas. Hastily removing the contents from the envelope.'she read her acceptance of his preposition. “Oh. heavens! Instead or mailing this, have mailed my crawfish letter to Fred! I must have mistaken Douglas for Downing. How careless of me when, the names are so near alike! I shall write to Fred at once, recalling my letter. But I can’t post it to-night, and if I could it wouldn’t head bin’, off He’ll get it on the early morning delivery . And what good would a recantation do. anyway? i hare si-own how I reel and —oh dear, what shall I dor’* Miss Metford was at the breakfasttable the next morning when there came a sharp ring at the doorbell. She gave a convulsive start, casting quick glances at the doors ana window? a; if looking for some avenue for escape. A maid entered hearing a card. Miss Metford loked at it as one at bay. then directed the maid to say that she would appear presently. Miss Metford did not have to keep the caller waiting, for she had puton her most becoming morning costume. Nevertheless, si;? did not enter the drawing rom for a quarter of an hour. Downing, who was standing looking out- through a window, hearing a rustle of skirts, turned and seeing her advanced eagerly. “Eleanor!”

Now. Mr; Downing was not aware that the lady had sent him the kite” unintentionally, but she had written it and could not very well unwrite it. His only fear was that 1m should make some blunder which micht occasion its recall. He knew her for a higbsnirited woman, who had dismissed him in a pique, and lie had no mind to be dismissed again. “Eleanor,” he said humbly. have made me see the enormity of the often"'? for which you punished me: you have shown me the magnanimity of your nature by Granting me your forgiveness, and you have made me the happiest- man in the world.” Tins was very foxy of the gentleman. and it had its effect. “Acceptmy apology for the-. ungenerous, ungallant “~Rude.” “Yes. rude treatment of you. k you will restore mo to the position 1 occupied before " “You forfeited it." “Showed mvsif unworthy of the preference of the noblest. loveliest ot women. I promise to devote my liie to doing penance for my fault.” Sh » maanauimously extended her hand. tie seized it and covered i* wirh kisses. Then he said: “T leave on a ship sailing in an hour for Japan, to be gone a couple of months. On my return— —”

"What is it. darling? Does it" really so mi in von to part with, mo? Miss Metfejd showed decision at last. She informed Mr. Downing they her objections to his going were thatshe must be married within a monthhud if be was to be man she murri, lie must give up his trip. It- is nee, - losv to sav be remained at home. 1

But for a mistake. Miss Metford would have nvavvied another man.