[EDITOR. It all seems to have happened rather rapidly, does it not?
Twenty-four hours ago he had been--AUTHOR. You forget that this is SHORT story.]
Handsome Hardow! How absurd it sounded now! He had let his beard grow, his clothes were in rags, a scar over one eye testified--
[EDITOR. Yes, yes. Of course, I quite admit that a man might go to the bad in twenty-four hours, but would his beard grow as--AUTHOR.
Look here, you"ve heard of a man going grey with trouble in a single night, haven"t you?
EDITOR. Certainly.
AUTHOR. Well, it"s the same idea as that.
EDITOR. Ah, quite so, quite so.
AUTHOR. Where was I?
EDITOR. A scar over one eye was just testifying--I suppose he had two eyes in the ordinary way?]
---testified to a drunken frolic of an hour or two ago. Never before, thought the policeman, as he pa.s.sed upon his beat, had such a pitiful figure cowered upon the Embankment, and prayed for the night to cover him.
The--
He was--
Er--the--
[EDITOR. Yes?
AUTHOR. To tell the truth I am rather stuck for the moment.
EDITOR. What is the trouble?
AUTHOR. I don"t quite know what to do with Robert for ten hours or so.
EDITOR. Couldn"t he go somewhere by a local line?
AUTHOR. This is not a humorous story. The point is that I want him to be outside a certain house some twenty miles from town at eight o"clock that evening.
EDITOR. If I were Robert I should certainly start at once.
AUTHOR. No, I have it.]
As he sat there, his thoughts flew over the bridge of years, and he was wafted on the wings of memory to other and happier Yuletides.
That Christmas when he had received his first bicycle....
That Christmas abroad....
The merry house-party at the place of his Cambridge friend....
Yuletide at The Towers, where he had first met Alice!
Ah!
Ten hours pa.s.sed rapidly thus...
[AUTHOR. I put dots to denote the flight of years. EDITOR. Besides, it will give the reader time for a sandwich.]
Robert got up and shook himself.
[EDITOR. One moment. This is a Christmas story. When are you coming to the robin?
AUTHOR. I really can"t be bothered about robins just now. I a.s.sure you all the best Christmas stories begin like this nowadays. We may get to a robin later; I cannot say.
EDITOR. We must. My readers expect a robin, and they shall have it.
And a wa.s.sail-bowl, and a turkey, and a Christmas-tree, and a--
AUTHOR. Yes, yes; but wait. We shall come to little Elsie soon, and then perhaps it will be all right.
EDITOR. Little Elsie. Good!]
Robert got up and shook himself. Then he shivered miserably, as the cold wind cut through him like a knife. For a moment he stood motionless, gazing over the stone parapet into the dark river beyond, and as he gazed a thought came into his mind. Why not end it all--here and now? He had nothing to live for. One swift plunge, and--
[EDITOR. YOu forget. The river was frozen.
AUTHOR. Dash it, I was just going to say that.]
But no! Even in this Fate was against him. THE RIVER WAS FROZEN OVER! He turned away with a curse....
What happened afterwards Robert never quite understood. Almost unconsciously he must have crossed one of the numerous bridges which span the river and join North London to South. Once on the other side, he seems to have set his face steadily before him, and to have dragged his weary limbs on and on, regardless of time and place. He walked like one in a dream, his mind drugged by the dull narcotic of physical pain. Suddenly he realized that he had left London behind him, and was in the more open s.p.a.ces of the country. The houses were more scattered; the recurring villa of the clerk had given place to the isolated mansion of the stock broker. Each residence stood in its own splendid grounds, surrounded by fine old forest trees and approached by a long carriage sweep. Electric--
[EDITOR Quite so. The whole forming a magnificent estate for a retired gentleman. Never mind that.]
Robert stood at the entrance to one of these houses, and the iron entered into his soul. How different was this man"s position from his own! What right had this man--a perfect stranger--to be happy and contented in the heart of his family, while he, Robert, stood, a homeless wanderer, alone in the cold?
Almost unconsciously he wandered down the drive, hardly realizing what he was doing until he was brought up by the gay lights of the windows. Still without thinking, he stooped down and peered into the brilliantly lit room above him. Within all was jollity; beautiful women moved to and fro, and the happy laughter of children came to him. "Elsie," he heard someone call, and a childish treble re sponded.
[EDITOR. Now for the robin.
AUTHOR. I am very sorry. I have just remembered something rather sad. The fact is that, two days before, Elsie had forgotten to feed the robin, and in consequence it had died before this story opens.
EDITOR. That is really very awkward. I have already arranged with an artist to do some pictures, AND _I_ REMEMBER _I_ PARTICULARLY ORDERED A ROBIN AND A Wa.s.sAIL. WHAT ABOUT THE Wa.s.sAIL?
AUTHOR. ELSIE ALWAYS HAD HER PORRIDGE upstairs.]
A terrible thought had come into Robert"s head. It was nearly twelve o"clock. The house-party was retiring to bed. He heard the "Good-nights" wafted through the open window; the lights went out, to reappear upstairs. Presently they too went out, and Robert was alone with the darkened house.
The temptation was too much for a conscience already sodden with billiards, drink and cigars. He flung a leg over the sill and drew himself gently into the room. At least he would have one good meal, he too would have his Christmas dinner before the end came. He switched the light on and turned eagerly to the table. His eyes ravenously scanned the contents. Turkey, mince-pies, plum-pudding-- all was there as in the days of his youth.