by A. A. Milne
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"He was gwowed up, Alice. Don't you int—inter—"
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"Interrupt, you goosey," said Alice.
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"One Christmas Eve these men fell to talking of their homes, and made up their minds to have a good dinner. But Hugh—"
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"Oh!" exclaimed the lad, "Hugh!"
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Mr. Chris nodded and continued. "But Hugh felt very weak because he was just getting well of a fever, yet they persuaded him to come to table with the rest. One man, a German, stood up and said, 'This is the eve of Christmas. I will say our grace what we say at home.' One man laughed, but the others were still. Then the German said,
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'Come, Lord Christ, and be our guest,
Take with us what Thou hast blest.'
When Hugh heard the words the German said he began to think of home and of many Christmas eves, and because he felt a strangeness in his head, he said, 'I'm not well; I will go into the air.' As he moved, he saw before him a man in the doorway. The face of the man was sad, and his garment was white as snow. He said, 'Follow me.' But no others, except Hugh, saw or heard. Now, when Hugh went outside, the man he had seen was gone; but being still confused, Hugh went over the hard snow and among trees, not knowing what he did; and at last after wandering a long time he came to a steep hillside. Here he slipped and rolling down fell over a high place. Down, down, down he fell, and he fell."
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"Oh! make him stop," cried little Hugh.
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"He fell on to a deep bed of soft snow and was not hurt, but soon got up, and thought he was buried in a white tomb. But soon he understood, and his head grew clearer, and he beat the snow away and got out. Then, first he said a prayer, and that was the only prayer he had said in a long time."
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"Oh my!" cried little Hugh. "I did think people could nevah sleep unless they say their prayers. That's what nurse says. Doesn't she, Alice?"
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And just here Kris had to wipe his eyes, but he took the little fellow's hand in his and went on.
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"Soon he found shelter under a cliff, where no snow was, and with his flint and steel struck a light, and made with sticks and logs a big fire. After this he felt warm and better all over and fell asleep. When he woke up it was early morning, and looking about, he saw in the rock little yellow streaks and small lumps, and then he knew he had found a great mine of gold no man had ever seen before. By and by he got out of the valley and found his companions, and in the spring he went to his mine, which, because he had found it, was all his own, and he got people to work there and dig out the gold. After that he was no longer poor, but very, very rich."
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"And was he good then?" said Hugh.
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"And did he go home," said Alice, "and buy things?"
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"Yes, he went. One day he went home and at night saw his house and little children, and—but he will not stay, because there is no love waiting in his house, and all the money in the world is no good unless there is some love too. You see, dear, a house is just a house of brick and mortar, but when it is full of love, then it is a home."
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"I like that man," said Hugh. "Tell me more."
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"But first," said Alice, "oh! we do want to see all our presents."
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"Ah, well. That is all, I think; and the presents. Now for the presents." Then he opened a bag and took out first a string of great pearls, and said, as he hung them around Alice's neck, "There, these the oysters made for you years ago under the deep blue sea. They are for a wedding gift from Chris. They are too fine for a little maid. No Queen has prettier pearls. But when you are married and some one you love vexes you or is unkind, look at these pearls, and forgive, oh! a hundred times over; twice, thrice, for every pearl, because Kris said it. You won't understand now, but some day you will."
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"Yes, sir," said Alice, puzzled, and playing with the pearls.
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Said Hugh, "You said, Mr. Khwis, that the oysters make pearls. Why do the oysters make pearls?"
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"I will tell you," replied Kris. "If a bit of something rough or sharp gets inside the oyster's house, and it can't be got rid of, the oyster begins to make a pearl of it, and covers it over and over until the rough, rude thing is one of these beautiful pearls."
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"I see," said Hugh.
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"That is a little fairy tale I made for myself; I often make stories for myself."
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"That must be very nice, Mr. Khwis. How nice it must be for your little children every night when you tell them stories."
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"Yes—yes"—and here Kris had to wipe his eyes with his handkerchief.
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"Isn't that a doll?" said Alice, looking at the bag.
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"Yes; a doll from Japan."
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"Oh!" exclaimed Alice.
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"And boxes of sugar-plums for Christmas," he added. "And, Hugh, here are skates for you and this bundle of books."
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"Thank you, sir."
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"And these—and these for my—for Alice," and Kris drew forth a half-dozen delicate Eastern scarves and cast them, laughing, around the girl's neck as she stood delighted.
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"And now I want to trust you. This is for—for your mother; only an envelope from Kris to her. Inside is a fairy paper, and whenever she pleases it will turn to gold—oh! much gold, and she will be able then to keep her old home and you need never go away, and the pony will stay."
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"Oh! that will be nice. We do sank you, sir; don't we, Alice?"
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"Yes. But now I must go. Kiss me. You will kiss me?" He seemed to doubt it.
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"Oh! yes," they cried, and cast their little arms about him while he held them in a long embrace, loath to let them go.
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"O Alice!" said Hugh, "Mr. Khwis is cwying. What's the matter, Mr. Khwis?"
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"Nothing," he said. "Once I had two little children, and you see you look like them, and—and I have not seen them this long while."
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Alice silently reflected on the amount of presents which Kris's children must have, but Hugh said:
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"We are bofe wewy sorry for you, Mr. Khwis."
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"Thank you," he returned, "I shall remember that, and now be still a little, I must write to your mother, and you must give her my letter after she has my present."
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"Yes," said Alice, "we will."
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Then Kris lit a candle and took paper and pen from the table, and as they sat quietly waiting, full of the marvel of this famous adventure, he wrote busily, now and then pausing to smile on them, until he closed and gave the letter to the boy.
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"Be careful of these things," he said, "for now I must go."
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"And will you nevah, nevah come back?"
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"My God!" cried the man. "Never—perhaps never. Don't forget me, Alice, Hugh." And this time he kissed them again and went by and opened the door to the stairway.
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"We thank you ever so much," said Hugh, and standing aside he waited for Alice to pass, having in his child-like ways something of the grave courtesy of the ancestors who looked down on him from the walls. Alice courtesied and the small cavalier, still with the old rapier in hand, bowed low. Kris stood at the door and listened to the patter of little feet upon the stair; then he closed it with noiseless care. In a few minutes he had put out the candles, resumed his cloak, and left the house. The snow no longer fell. The wanin
g night was clearer, and to eastward a faint rosy gleam foretold the coming of the sun of Christmas. Kris glanced up at the long-windowed house and turning went slowly down the garden path.
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Long before their usual hour of rising, the children burst into the mother's room. "You monkeys," she cried, smiling; "Merry Christmas to you! What is the matter?"
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"Oh! he was here! he did come!" cried Alice.
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"Khwis was here," said Hugh. "I did hear him in the night, and I told Alice it was Khwis, and she said it was a wobber, and I said it wasn't a wobber. And we went to see, and it was a man. It was Khwis. He did say so."
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"What! a man at night in the house! Are you crazy, children?"
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"And Hugh took grandpapa's sword, and—"
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"Gweat-gwanpapa's," said Hugh, with strict accuracy.
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"You brave boy!" cried the woman, proudly. "And he stole nothing, and, oh! what a silly tale."
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"But it was Khwis, mamma. He did give us things. I do tell you it was Khwis Kwingle."
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"Oh! he gave us things for you, and for me, and for Hugh, and he gave me this," cried Alice, who had kept her hand behind her, and now threw the royal pearls on the bed amid a glory of Eastern scarves.
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"Are we all bewitched?" cried the mother.
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"Oh! and skates, and sugar-plums, and books, and a doll, and this for you. Oh! Khwis didn't forget nobody, mamma."
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The mother seized and hastily opened the blank envelope which the boy gave her.
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"What! what!" she cried, as she stared at the inclosure; "is this a jest?"
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Union Trust Co., New York.
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Madame:—We have the honor to hold at your disposal the following registered United States bonds, in all amounting to ——.
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The sum was a great fortune. The Trust Company was known to her, even its president's signature.
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"What's the matter, mamma," cried Alice, amazed at the unusual look the calm mother's face wore as she arose from the bed, while the great pearls tumbled over and lay on the sunlit floor, and the fairy letter fell unheeded. Her thoughts were away in the desert of her past life.
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"And here, I forgot," said Hugh, "Mr. Khwis did write you a letter."
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"Quick," she cried. "Give it to me." She opened it with fierce eagerness. Then she said, "Go away, leave me alone. Yes, yes, I will talk to you by and by. Go now." And she drove the astonished children from the room and sat down with her letter.
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"Dear Alice:—Shall I say wife? I promised to come no more until you asked me to come. I can stand it no longer. I came only meaning to see the dear home, and to send you and my dear children a remembrance, but I—You know the rest. If in those dark days the mother care and fear instinctively set aside what little love was left for me I do not now wonder. Was it well, or ill, what you did when you bid me go? In God's time I have learned to think it well. That hour is to me now like a blurred dream. To-day I can bless the anger and the sense of duty to our children which drove me forth—too debased a thing to realize my loss. I have won again my self-control, thank God! am a man once more. You have, have always had, my love. You have to-day again a dozen times the fortune I meanly squandered. I shall never touch it; it is yours and your children's. And now, Alice, is all love dead for me? And is it Yes or No? And shall I be always to my little ones Kris, and to-night a mysterious memory, or shall I be once more
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Your Hugh?
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"A letter to the bank will find me."
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As she read, the quick tears came aflood. She turned to her desk and wrote in tremulous haste, "Come, come at once," and ringing for the maid, sent it off to the address he gave. The next morning she dressed with unusual care. At the sound of the whistle of the train she went down to the door. Presently, a strong, erect, eager man came swiftly up the pathway. She was in his arms a minute after, little Hugh exclaiming, "O Alice! Mr. Khwis is kissing mamma!"
Bertie's Christmas Eve
Saki
Bertie's Christmas Eve
It was Christmas Eve, and the family circle of Luke Steffink, Esq., was aglow with the amiability and random mirth which the occasion demanded. A long and lavish dinner had been partaken of, waits had been round and sung carols; the house-party had regaled itself with more caroling on its own account, and there had been romping which, even in a pulpit reference, could not have been condemned as ragging. In the midst of the general glow, however, there was one black unkindled cinder.
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Bertie Steffink, nephew of the aforementioned Luke, had early in life adopted the profession of ne’er-do-weel; his father had been something of the kind before him. At the age of eighteen Bertie had commenced that round of visits to our Colonial possessions, so seemly and desirable in the case of a Prince of the Blood, so suggestive of insincerity in a young man of the middle-class. He had gone to grow tea in Ceylon and fruit in British Columbia, and to help sheep to grow wool in Australia. At the age of twenty he had just returned from some similar errand in Canada, from which it may be gathered that the trial he gave to these various experiments was of the summary drum-head nature. Luke Steffink, who fulfilled the troubled role of guardian and deputy-parent to Bertie, deplored the persistent manifestation of the homing instinct on his nephew’s part, and his solemn thanks earlier in the day for the blessing of reporting a united family had no reference to Bertie’s return.
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Arrangements had been promptly made for packing the youth off to a distant corner of Rhodesia, whence return would be a difficult matter; the journey to this uninviting destination was imminent, in fact a more careful and willing traveller would have already begun to think about his packing. Hence Bertie was in no mood to share in the festive spirit which displayed itself around him, and resentment smouldered within him at the eager, self-absorbed discussion of social plans for the coming months which he heard on all sides. Beyond depressing his uncle and the family circle generally by singing “Say au revoir, and not good-bye,” he had taken no part in the evening’s conviviality.
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Eleven o’clock had struck some half-hour ago, and the elder Steffinks began to throw out suggestions leading up to that process which they called retiring for the night.
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“Come, Teddie, it’s time you were in your little bed, you know,” said Luke Steffink to his thirteen-year-old son.
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“That’s where we all ought to be,” said Mrs. Steffink.
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“There wouldn’t be room,” said Bertie.
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The remark was considered to border on the scandalous; everybody ate raisins and almonds with the nervous industry of sheep feeding during threatening weather.
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“In Russia,” said Horace Bordenby, who was staying in the house as a Christmas guest, “I’ve read that the peasants believe that if you go into a cow-house or stable at midnight on Christmas Eve you will hear the animals talk. They’re supposed to have the gift of speech at that one moment of the year.”
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“Oh, do let’s all go down to the cow-house and listen to what they’ve got to say!” exclaimed Beryl, to whom anything was thrilling and amusing if you did it in a troop.
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Mrs. Steffink made a laughing protest, but gave a virtual consent by saying, “We must all wrap up well, then.” The idea seemed a scatterbrained one to her, and almost heathenish, but if afforded an opportunity for “throwing the young people together,” and as such she welcomed it. Mr. Horace Bordenby was a young man with quite substa
ntial prospects, and he had danced with Beryl at a local subscription ball a sufficient number of times to warrant the authorised inquiry on the part of the neighbours whether “there was anything in it.” Though Mrs. Steffink would not have put it in so many words, she shared the idea of the Russian peasantry that on this night the beast might speak.
