I picked up a train of cars, and, to my astonishment, found it stamped with the name of a Connecticut firm. I hesitated to say more, for I knew that I was on dangerous ground, but after that I looked at every book or box of blocks and the like, to find that my suspicions were well founded. England gets many of its Christmas toys from America.
Nothing came of this episode except a pleasant introduction for Barfleur, who had all the future before him. I was leaving for Manchester after the new year, and for Paris a week or two later. It was all in vain as I foresaw, that I was invited to call again, or that she hoped to see something of me among her friends in London. I think I said as much to Barfleur with many unkind remarks about the type of mind that manages to secure all merely by a process of waiting. Meantime he walked bravely forward, his overcoat snugly buttoned, his cane executing an idle circle, his monocle on straight, his nose in the air. I could have made away with him for much less.
The last of this very gallant day came in the home of Barfleur himself. As we neared the house we decided to hurry forward and to say that Gerard had remained at the Churchill’s for dinner, while he made a wide detour, ending up, I think, in some chamber in the coach house. I did not see him again until much later in the evening, but meantime the children, the relatives, the friends and the family servants were all gathered in the nursery on the second floor. There was much palaver and badinage concerning the fact that Santa Claus had really had such bad reports that he had found it much against his will to come here, early at least. There were some rather encouraging things that had been reported to him later, however, and he had, so some one had heard, changed his mind. Whether there would be little or much for such a collection of ne’er-do-wells was open to question. However if we were all very quiet for a while we should see. I can see Barfleur now in his gala attire, stalking nobly about, and the four little Barfleurs surveying rather incredulously but expectantly the maid, the nurse, the governess, and their father. I wondered what had become of my small mementos and whether my special cigarettes for Barfleur were in safety in Santa Claus’s pack. It was small stock, I fear me much, that these well-behaved little English children took in this make-believe, but presently there was a loud hammering at the nursery door, and without a “By your leave,” the same was opened and a vigorous, woolly-headed Santa Claus put his rosy face into the chamber.
“Is there any one living here by the name of Percy Franklin Barfleur, or Berenice Barfleur, or James Herbert Barfleur?” I shall not repeat all the names he called in a high falsetto voice, “I’ve been a long way to-day and I’ve had a great deal to do, and I haven’t had the least assistance from anybody. They’re so busy having a good time themselves.”
I never saw a redder nose, or more shaggy eye-browed eyes, or a gayer twinkle in them. And the pack that he carried was simply enormous. It could barely be squeezed through the door. As he made his way to the center of the room he looked quizzically about, groaning and squeaking in his funny voice, and wanting to know if the man in the monocle were really Barfleur, and whether the fat lady in the corner were really a nurse, or merely an interloper, and if the four children that had been reported to him as present were surely there. Having satisfied himself on various counts, and evoked a great deal of innocent laughter, to say nothing of awe as to his next probable comment, he finally untied the enormous bag and began to consult the labels.
“Here’s a package marked ‘Charles Gerard Barfleur.’ It’s rather large. It’s been very heavy to carry all this distance. Can anybody tell me whether he’s been a reasonably good child? It’s very hard to go to all this trouble, if children aren’t really deserving.” Then, as he came forward, he added, “He has a very impish look in his eye, but I suppose I ought to let him have it.” And so the gift was handed over.
One by one the presents came forth, commented on in this fashion, only the comments varied with the age and the personality of the recipient. There was no lack of humor or intimacy of application, for this Santa Claus apparently knew whereof he spoke.
“Is there a writer in the room by the name of Theodore Dreiser?” he remarked at one time sardonically. “I’ve heard of him faintly and he isn’t a very good writer, but I suppose he’s entitled to a slight remembrance. I hope you reform, Mr. Dreiser,” he remarked very wisely, as he drew near me. “It’s very plain to me that a little improvement could be effected.”
I acknowledged the wisdom of the comment.
When my cigarettes were handed to Barfleur, Santa Claus tapped them sapiently. “More wretched cigarettes!” he remarked in his high falsetto. “I know them well! If it isn’t one vice that has to be pampered, it’s another. I would have brought him pâté de foies gras or wine, if I didn’t think this was less harmful. He’s very fond of prawns too, but they’re very expensive at this time of the year. A little economy wouldn’t hurt him.” Dora, the maid, and Mrs. A., the nurse, and Miss C., the governess, came in for really brilliant compliments. Lord Scorp was told that an old English castle or a Rembrandt would be most suitable, but that Santa was all out at present, and if he would just be a little more cheerful in the future he might manage to get him one. T. McT. was given books, as very fitting, and in a trice the place was literally littered with wonders. There were immense baskets and boxes of candied fruit from Holland; toys, books and fruit from Barfleur’s mother in Rome; more toys and useful presents from ladies in London and the north of England and France and the Isle of Wight,—a goodly company of mementos. It’s something to be an attractive widower! I never saw children more handsomely or bountifully provided for—a new saddle, bridle and whip for Berenice’s riding pony, curious puzzles, German mechanical toys from Berlin, and certain ornamental articles of dress seemed, by the astonishing bursts of excitement they provoked, exceedingly welcome. Santa now drew off his whiskers and cap to reveal himself as Gerard Barfleur, and we all literally got down on the floor to play with the children. You can imagine, with each particular present to examine, how much there was to do. Tea-time came and went unnoticed, a stated occasion in England. Supper, a meal not offered except on Christmas, was spread about eight o’clock. About nine an automobile took Lord Scorp and T. McT. away, and after that we all returned to the nursery until about ten-thirty when even by the most liberal interpretation of holiday license it was bedtime. We soberer elders (I hope no one sets up a loud guffaw) adjourned to the drawing-room for nuts and wine, and finally, as the beloved Pepys was accustomed to remark, “So to bed.”