Wacky Anne's Christmas Library: The Burglar's Christmas

Two very shabby looking young men stood at the corner of Prairie Avenue and Eightieth Street, looking despondently at the carriages that whirled by. It was Christmas Eve, and the streets were full of vehicles; florists' wagons, grocers' carts and carriages. The streets were in that half-liquid, half-congealed condition peculiar to the streets of Chicago at that season of the year. The swift wheels that spun by sometimes threw the slush of mud and snow over the two young men who were talking on the corner.

"Well," remarked the elder of the two,"I guess we are at our rope's end, sure enough. How do you feel?"

"Pretty shaky. The wind's sharp tonight. If I had had anything to eat I mightn't mind it so much. There is simply no show. I'm sick of the whole business. Looks like there's nothing for it but the lake."

"O, nonsense, I thought you had more grit. Got anything left you can hock?"

"Nothing but my beard, and Lam afraid they wouldn't find it worth a pawn ticket," said the younger man ruefully, rubbing the week's growth of stubble on his face.

"Got any folks anywhere? Now's your time to strike 'em if you have.

"Never mind if I have, they're out of the question."

"Well, you'll be out of it before many hours if you don't make a move of some sort. A man's got to eat. See here, I am going down to Longtin's saloon. I used to play the banjo in there with a couple of coons, and I'll bone him for some of his free-lunch stuff. You'd better come along, perhaps they'll fill an order for two."

"How far down is it?"

"Well, it's clear downtown, of course, 'way down on Michigan avenue.

"Thanks, I guess I'll loaf around here. I don't feel equal to the walk, and the cars--well, the cars are crowded." His features drew themselves into what might have been a smile under happier circumstances.

"No, you never did like street cars, you're too aristocratic. See here, Crawford, I don't like leaving you here. You ain't good company for yourself tonight."

"Crawford? O, yes, that's the last one. There have been so many I forget them."

"Have you got a real name, anyway?"

"O, yes, but it's one of the ones I've forgotten. Don't you worry about me. You go along and get your free lunch. I think I had a row in Longtin's place once. I'd better not show myself there again." As he spoke the young man nodded and turned slowly up the avenue.

He was miserable enough to want to be quite alone. Even the crowd that jostled by him annoyed him. He wanted to think about himself. He had avoided this final reckoning with himself for a year now. He had laughed it off and drunk it off. But now, when all those artificial devices which are employed to turn our thoughts into other channels and shield us from ourselves had failed him, it must come. Hunger is a powerful incentive to introspection.

It is a tragic hour, that hour when we are finally driven to reckon with ourselves, when every avenue of mental distraction has been cut off and our own life and all its ineffaceable failures closes about us like the walls of that old torture chamber of the Inquisition. Tonight, as this man stood stranded in the streets of the city, his hour came. It was not the first time he had been hungry and desperate and alone. But always before there had been some outlook, some chance ahead, some pleasure yet untasted that seemed worth the effort, some face that he fancied was, or would be, dear. But it was not so tonight. The unyielding conviction was upon him that he had failed in everything, had outlived everything. It had been near him for a long time, that Pale Spectre. He had caught its shadow at the bottom of his glass many a time, at the head of his bed when he was sleepless at night, in the twilight shadows when some great sunset broke upon him. It had made life hateful to him when he awoke in the morning before now. But now it settled slowly over him, like night, the endless Northern nights that bid the sun a long farewell. It rose up before him like granite. From this brilliant city with its glad bustle of Yuletide he was shut off as completely as though he were a creature of another species. His days seemed numbered and done, sealed over like the little coral cells at the bottom of the sea. Involuntarily he drew that cold air through his lungs slowly, as though he were tasting it for the last time.

Yet he was but four and twenty, this man--he looked even younger--and he had a father some place down East who had been very proud of him once. Well, he had taken his life into his own hands, and this was what he had made of it. That was all there was to be said. He could remember the hopeful things they used to say about him at college in the old days, before he had cut away and begun to live by his wits, and he found courage to smile at them now. They had read him wrongly. He knew now that he never had the essentials of success, only the superficial agility that is often mistaken for it. He was tow without the tinder, and he had burnt himself out at other people's fires. He had helped other people to make it win, but he himself--he had never touched an enterprise that had not failed eventually. Or, if it survived his connection with it, it left him behind.

His last venture had been with some ten-cent specialty company, a little lower than all the others, that had gone to pieces in Buffalo, and he had worked his way to Chicago by boat. When the boat made up its crew for the outward voyage, he was dispensed with as usual. He was used to that. The reason for it? O, there are so many reasons for failure! His was a very common one.

As he stood there in the wet under the street light he drew up his reckoning with the world anddecided that it had treated him as well as he deserved. He had overdrawn his account once toooften. There had been a day when he thought otherwise; when he had said he was unjustly handled, that his failure was merely the lack of proper adjustment between himself and other men, that some day he would be recognized and it would all come right. But he knew better than that now, and he was still man enough to bear no grudge against any one--man or woman.

Tonight was his birthday, too. There seemed something particularly amusing in that. He turned up a limp little coat collar to try to keep a little of the wet chill from his throat, and instinctively began to remember all the birthday parties he used to have. He was so cold and empty that his mind seemed unable to grapple with any serious question. He kept thinking about gingerbread and frosted cakes like a child. He could remember the splendid birthday parties his mother used to give him, when all the other little boys in the block came in their Sunday clothes and creaking shoes, with their ears still red from their mother's towel, and the pink and white birthday cake, and the stuffed olives and all the dishes of which he had been particularly fond, and how he would eat and eat and then go to bed and dream of Santa Claus. And in the morning he would awaken and eat again, until by night the family doctor arrived with his castor oil, and poor William used to dolefully say that it was altogether too much to have your birthday and Christmas all at once. He could remember, too,the royal birthday suppers he had given atcollege, and the stag dinners, and the toasts, andthe music, and the good fellows who had wished himhappiness and really meant what they said.

And since then there were other birthday suppers that he could not remember so clearly; thememory of them was heavy and flat, like cigarettesmoke that has been shut in a room all night, likechampagne that has been a day opened, a song thathas been too often sung, an acute sensation thathas been overstrained. They seemed tawdry andgarish, discordant to him now. He rather wishedhe could forget them altogether.

Whichever way his mind now turned there was one thought that it could not escape, and that was theidea of food. He caught the scent of a cigarsuddenly, and felt a sharp pain in the pit of hisabdomen and a sudden moisture in his mouth. Hiscold hands clenched angrily, and for a moment hefelt that bitter hatred of wealth, of ease, ofeverything that is well fed and well housed thatis common to starving men. At any rate he had aright to eat! He had demanded great things fromthe world once: fame and wealth and admiration.Now it was simply bread--and he would have it! Helooked about him quickly and felt the blood beginto stir in his veins. In all his straits he hadnever stolen anything, his tastes were above it.But tonight thcre would be no tomorrow. He wasamused at the way in which the idea excited him.Was it possible there was yet one more experiencethat would distract him, one thing that had powerto excite his jaded interest? Good! he hadfailed at everything else, now he would see whathis chances would be as a common thief. It wouldbe amusing to watch the beautiful consistency ofhis destiny work itself out even in that role. Itwould be interesting to add another study to hisgallery of futile attempts, and then label themall:"the failure as a journalist,""the failure as a lecturer," "thefailure as a business man," "the failureas a thief," and so on, like the titles underthe pictures of the Dance of Death. It was timethat Childe Roland came to the dark tower.

A girl hastened by him with her arms full of packages. She walked quickly and nervously,keeping well within the shadow, as if she were notaccustomed to carrying bundles and did not care tomeet any of her friends. As she crossed the muddystreet, she made an effort to lift her skirt alittle, and as she did so one of the packagesslipped unnoticed from beneath her arm. He caughtit up and overtook her."Excuse me, but Ithink you dropped something."

She started,"O, yes, thank you, I would rather have lost anything than that."

The young man turned angrily upon himself. The package must have contained something of value.Why had he not kept it? Was this the sort ofthief he would make? He ground his teethtogether. There is nothing more maddening than tohave morally consented to crime and then lack thenerve force to carry it out.

A carriage drove up to the house before which he stood. Several richly dressed women alightedand went in. It was a new house, and must havebeen built since he was in Chicago last. Thefront door was open and he could see down thehallway and up the staircase. The servant hadleft the door and gone with the guests. The firstfloor was brilliantly lighted, but the windowsupstairs were dark. It looked very easy, just toslip upstairs to the darkened chambers where thejewels and trinkets of the fashionable occupantswere kept.

Still burning with impatience against himself he entered quickly. Instinctively he removed hismud-stained hat as he passed quickly and quietlyup the stair case. It struck him as being arather superfluous courtesy in a burglar, but hehad done it before he had thought. His way wasclear enough, he met no one on the stairway or inthe upper hall. The gas was lit in the upperhall. He passed the first chamber door throughsheer cowardice. The second he entered quickly,thinking of something else lest his courage shouldfail him, and closed the door behind him. Thelight from the hall shone into the room throughthe transom. The apartment was furnished richlyenough to justify his expectations. He went atonce to the dressing case. A number of rings andsmall trinkets lay in a silver tray. These he puthastily in his pocket. He opened the upper drawerand found, as he expected, several leather cases.In the first he opened was a lady's watch, in thesecond a pair of old-fashioned bracelets; heseemed to dimly remember having seen braceletslike them before, somewhere. The third case was heavier, the spring was much worn, and it openedeasily. It held a cup of some kind. He held itup to the light and then his strained nerves gaveway and he uttered a sharp exclamation. It wasthe silver mug he used to drink from when he was alittle boy.

The door opened, and a woman stood in the doorway facing him. She was a tall woman, withwhite hair, in evening dress. The light from thehall streamed in upon him, but she was not afraid.She stood looking at him a moment, then she threwout her hand and went quickly toward him.

"Willie, Willie! Is it you?"

He struggled to loose her arms from him, to keep her lips from his cheek."Mother--youmust not! You do not understand! O, my God, thisis worst of all!" Hunger, weakness, cold,shame, all came back to him, and shook hisself-control completely. Physically he was tooweak to stand a shock like this. Why could it nothave been an ordinary discovery, arrest, thestation house and all the rest of it. Anythingbut this! A hard dry sob broke from him. Againhe strove to disengage himself.

"Who is it says I shall not kiss my son? O, my boy, we have waited so long for this! Youhave been so long in coming, even I almost gaveyou up.

Her lips upon his cheek burnt him like fire. He put his hand to his throat, and spoke thicklyand incoherently:"You do not understand. Idid not know you were here. I came here to rob--itis the first time--I swear it--but I am a commonthief. My pockets are full of your jewels now.Can't you hear me? I am a common thief!"

"Hush, my boy, those are ugly words. How could you rob your own house? How could you takewhat is your own? They are all yours, my son, aswholly yours as my great love--and you can't doubtthat, Will, do you?"

That soft voice, the warmth and fragrance ofher person stole through his chill, empty veinslike a gentle stimulant. He felt as though allhis strength were leaving him and evenconsciousness. He held fast to her and bowed hishead on her strong shoulder, and groaned aloud.

"O, mother, life is hard, hard!"

She said nothing, but held him closer. And O,the strength of those white arms that held him!O, the assurance of safety in that warm bosom thatrose and fell under his cheek! For a moment theystood so, silently. Then they heard a heavy stepupon the stair. She led him to a chair and wentout and closed the door. At the top of thestaircase she met a tall, broad-shouldered man,with iron gray hair, and a face alert and stern.Her eyes were shining and her cheeks on fire, herwhole face was one expression of intensedetermination.

"James, it is William in there, come home.You must keep him at any cost. If he goes thistime, I go with him. O, James, be easy with him,he has suffered so." She broke from a commandto an entreaty, and laid her hand on his shoulder.He looked questioningly at her a moment, then wentin the room and quietly shut the door.

She stood leaning against the wall, claspingher temples with her hands and listening to thelow indistinct sound of the voices within. Herown lips moved silently. She waited a long time,scarcely breathing. At last the door opened, andher husband came out. He stopped to say in ashaken voice,

"You go to him now, he will stay. I willgo to my room. I will see him again in themorning."

She put her arm about his neck,"O, James,I thank you, I thank you! This is the night hecame so long ago, you remember? I gave him to youthen, and now you give him back to me!"

"Don't, Helen," he muttered."He is my son, I have never forgotten that.I failed with him. I don't like to fail, it cutsmy pride. Take him and make a man of him."He passed on down the hall.

She flew into the room where the young man satwith his head bowed upon his knee. She droppedupon her knees beside him. Ah, it was so good tohim to feel those arms again!

"He is so glad, Willie, so glad! He maynot show it, but he is as happy as I. He never wasdemonstrative with either of us, you know."

"O, my God, he was good enough,"groaned the man."I told him everything, andhe was good enough. I don't see how either of youcan look at me, speak to me, touch me." Heshivered under her clasp again as when she hadfirst touched him, and tried weakly to throw heroff. But she whispered softly,"This is myright, my son."

Presently, when he was calmer, she rose."Now, come with me into the library, and Iwill have your dinner brought there."

As they went downstairs she remarkedapologetically,"I will not call Ellentonight; she has a number of guests to attend to.She is a big girl now, you know, and came out lastwinter. Besides, I want you all to myselftonight."

When the dinner came, and it came very soon, hefell upon it savagely. As he ate she told him allthat had transpired during the years of hisabsence, and how his father's business had broughtthem there."I was glad when we came. Ithought you would drift West. I seemed a gooddeal nearer to you here."

There was a gentle unobtrusive sadness in her tone that was too soft for a reproach.

"Have you everything you want? It is a comfort to see you eat."

He smiled grimly,"It is certainly a comfort to me. I have not indulged in thisfrivolous habit for some thirty-five hours."

She caught his hand and pressed it sharply,uttering a quick remonstrance.

"Don't say that! I know, but I can't hear you say it--it's too terrible! My boy, food haschoked me many a time when I have thought of thepossibility of that. Now take the old loungingchair by the fire, and if you are too tired totalk, we will just sit and rest together."

He sank into the depths of the big leather chair with the lions' heads on the arms, where hehad sat so often in the days when his feet did nottouch the floor and he was half afraid of the grimmonsters cut in the polished wood. That chairseemed to speak to him of things long forgotten.It was like the touch of an old familiar friend.He felt a sudden yearning tenderness for the happylittle boy who had sat there and dreamed of thebig world so long ago. Alas, he had been deadmany a summer, that little boy!

He sat looking up at the magnificent woman beside him. He had almost forgotten how handsomeshe was; how lustrous and sad were the eyes thatwere set under that serene brow, how impetuous andwayward the mouth even now, how superb the whitethroat and shoulders! Ah, the wit and grace andfineness of this woman! He remembered how proudhe had been of her as a boy when she came to seehim at school. Then in the deep red coals of thegrate he saw the faces of other women who had comesince then into his vexed, disordered life.Laughing faces, with eyes artificially bright,eyes without depth or meaning, features withoutthe stamp of high sensibilities. And he had leftthis face for such as those!

He sighed restlessly and laid his hand on hers.There seemed refuge and protection in the touch ofher, as in the old days when he was afraid of thedark. He had been in the dark so long now, hisconfidence was so thoroughly shaken, and he wasbitterly afraid of the night and of himself.

"Ah, mother, you make other things seem so false. You must feel that I owe you anexplanation, but I can't make any, even to myself.Ah, but we make poor exchanges in life. I can'tmake out the riddle of it all. Yet there arethings I ought to tell you before I accept yourconfidence like this."

"I'd rather you wouldn't, Will. Listen: Between you and me there can be no secrets. Weare more alike than other people. Dear boy, Iknow all about it. I am a woman, andcircumstances were different with me, but we areof one blood. I have lived all your life beforeyou. You have never had an impulse that I havenot known, you have never touched a brink that myfeet have not trod. This is your birthday night.Twenty-four years ago I foresaw all this. I was ayoung woman then and I had hot battles of my own,and I felt your likeness to me. You were not likeother babies. From the hour you were born youwere restless and discontented, as I had beenbefore you. You used to brace your strong littlelimbs against mine and try to throw me off as youdid tonight. Tonight you have come back to me,just as you always did after you ran away to swimin the river that was forbidden you, the river youloved because it was forbidden. You are tired andsleepy, just as you used to be then, only a littleolder and a little paler and a little morefoolish. I never asked you where you had been then, nor will I now. You have come back to me,that's all in all to me. I know your everypossibility and limitation, as a composer knowshis instrument."

He found no answer that was worthy to give to talk like this. He had not found life easy sincehe had lived by his wits. He had come to knowpoverty at close quarters. He had known what itwas to be gay with an empty pocket, to wearviolets in his buttonhole when he had notbreakfasted, and all the hateful shams of thepoverty of idleness. He had been a reporter on abig metropolitan daily, where men grind out theirbrains on paper until they have not one idealeft--and still grind on. He had worked in a realestate office, where ignorant men were swindled.He had sung in a comic opera chorus and playedHarris in an Uncle Tom's Cabin company, and editeda socialist weekly. He had been dogged by debtand hunger and grinding poverty, until to sit hereby a warm fire without concern as to how it wouldbe paid for seemed unnatural.

He looked up at her questioningly."I wonder if you know how much you pardon?"

"O, my poor boy, much or little, what does it matter? Have you wandered so far and paid sucha bitter price for knowledge and not yet learnedthat love has nothing to do with pardon orforgiveness, that it only loves, and loves--andloves? They have not taught you well, the womenof your world." She leaned over and kissedhim, as no woman had kissed him since he left her.

He drew a long sigh of rich content. The old life, with all its bitterness and uselessantagonism and flimsy sophistries, its briefdelights that were always tinged with fear anddistrust and unfaith, that whole miserable,futile, swindled world of Bohemia seemedimmeasurably distant and far away, like a dreamthat is over and done. And as the chimes rangjoyfully outside and sleep pressed heavily uponhis eyelids, he wondered dimly if the Author ofthis sad little riddle of ours were not able tosolve it after all, and if the Potter would notfinally mete out his all comprehensive justice,such as none but he could have, to his Things ofClay, which are made in his own patterns, weak orstrong, for his own ends; and if some day we willnot awaken and find that all evil is a dream, amental distortion that will pass when the dawnshall break.