|IN the heart of Wales, nestling between two dark frowning mountains,
and lulled to drowsy indifference of the big outside world by the
murmurs of the not far distant sea, stands the little village of
Cod-y-glyn.
Just outside the village, on the main road stands--or did stand ten
years ago--an old stone house, in the middle of a large garden, which
was surrounded on all sides by a high wall, also of stone. It was the
pride of the owner, Miss Gwynne.
One night, in the early spring of the year, there was to be a wedding at
Cod-y-Glyn--a wedding in humble life, but anticipated with great glee by
the invited guests, among whom were Miss Gwynne's servants, the coachman
and his wife (who was also cook) and Ylva, their daughter, employed as a
maid-of-all-work.
Knowing the disappointment it would be to them if they were denied the
pleasure of attending the wedding, she had declined the coachman's offer
to remain with her, allowing his wife and daughter to go, and laughingly
assured him that with her father's gun for company she feared nothing.
Miss Gwynne retired at an early hour, having locked up the house.
She lay for some time gazing through the window at the twinkling stars,
lost in quiet retrospection.
I will let Miss Gwynne tell the rest of the story in her own way,
repeating as well as I can from memory the words as I heard them from
her lips ten years ago.
*****
I cannot tell if I dozed or not, but I was conscious of the moon shining
dimly through the clouds, and I wondered how long I had lain there.
Reaching out for my watch, which lay on the table, I was horrified to
feel my wrist grasped and held by a firm hand.
To say I was frightened would be less correct than to say I was
astounded, for I have always been a woman of steady nerve, and the
present occasion called for its use.
The moon had retired behind a heavy curtain of clouds, and the room was
in complete darkness, but from the drapery at my bedside issued a voice,
and at the same time the python-like grasp on my wrist relaxed.
“I beg to apologize, madam,” said this voice; “I have chosen a bungling
manner of awakening you--foreign to my custom. Pardon me, and do not be
alarmed. I merely wish to relieve you of any superfluous silver, jewelry
or bank notes you do not absolutely need. But as the vandalism of
breaking locks is out of my line, I will request you to arise and show
me where such things are kept.”
By the time he had finished this speech I was myself again.
“Very well,” I said, “I'll get up and show you; but, as it is
embarrassing to dress in your presence, will you step out into the hall
and close the door while I put on my clothing?”
There was a soft rustling of the curtains at the bedside, and the sound
of footsteps on the carpet, and immediately afterward the door closed.
“Five minutes, madam, is all I can give you,” remarked the burglar, as
he disappeared.
It took me (after lighting the candle) two minutes to slip on a warm
skirt, and a blue flannel wrapper over it; then, sticking my feet into
a pair of down slippers, I had still time to snatch a roll of bills
amounting to one hundred pounds, and pin them deftly to the lining of
the canopy above my four-post bed.
Then throwing open the door I stood on the sill facing my visitor, and
threw the glare of the lighted candle full upon him, as he lolled in a
careless, easy attitude against the bannisters.
I had been prepared for a burglar--but I had looked for one attired
according to the traditions of my ancestors. But here was a gentlemanly,
mild-featured individual, such as I should have expected to find filling
the position of a professor of Latin--perhaps of theology--in Oxford
University.
There was no appearance of a jimmy, or tools of any kind. Evidently here
was a type of criminal with which history was unacquainted.
“Madam!” he exclaimed, bowing with the grace of a French courtier, “you
are punctuality itself. And how charming!--no hysterics--no distressing
scenes. Allow me.” He took the candle from my hand, and holding it aloft
preceded me down the great oaken stairs, talking fluently all the while,
but pausing at every other step to glance over his shoulder at me with
coquettish politeness.
“I wish to assure you,” he remarked, “that I am no ordinary
house-breaker. Burglary is with me a _profession_, though not the one
(I confess) chosen for me by my parents. I saw, at an early age, that
I must either descend to the level of the burglar, or raise him to the
level of an artist. Behold, my dear lady, the result.”
He stood at the foot of the stairs and looked up at me.
“Shall we proceed to the diningroom?” he asked airily; “and, as I wish
to give you no unnecessary trouble, let me say that I do not dabble in
_plated_ spoons; nothing but solid silver.”
I opened the old mahogany sideboard, in which Griffiths had, for years,
placed the family heirlooms at night, and beheld my gentlemanly burglar
stow them, one after another, in a capacious felt sack, which he carried
in his hand.
“Charming!” he cried. “I am a connoisseur, I assure you, and I know
silver from plate. These articles are really worth the risk of the
enterprise.”
You ask me if I was not alarmed. No, I was _not_. Personal violence was
not in his professional line, unless opposed. I summoned all my energies
to outwit him. I thought much and said little, for I had no intention of
allowing him to carry off my mother's silver.
After having rifled all the rooms of the most valuable articles, he
returned to the dining-room.
On the table the remains of supper still stood, consisting of a fowl,
hardly touched, some delicately cut bread and butter, cake, and a glass
jar containing some fancy crackers.
“I will make myself entirely at home,” he remarked, sitting down to the
table, and helping himself to a wing of the chicken.
“Really,” he proceeded, “I have thoroughly enjoyed this evening. Not
only have I met a most charming lady, but I have been able to prove to
her that the terms gentleman and burglar may be synonomous.”
He now began on the cake. I pushed the cracker jar toward him. “Try
them,” I observed.
Still smiling indulgently, and talking, he took out one of the crackers
and began to nibble on it. It was _very dry_.
I rose, and in an absent-minded manner placed on the table the remains
of a bottle of rare old Burgundy, which had been opened the day before.
“Now, really,” he prattled, “I'm a very harmless man five months out
of six--I never steal unless other means fail, or a tailor's bill comes
due. I'm a respectable citizen and--a church member in good standing
when I'm not on one of my professional tours. I took up burglary more
as a resource than from necessity. Candidly speaking, now, _am_ I a
ruffian?”
[Illustration: 0302]
“No!” I replied, looking directly at him. “On the contrary, you are a
very fine-looking man.”
A glow of vanity spread over his face. I poured out a glass of the
Burgundy and pushed it toward him.
“England to Wales!” he cried with gallantry. “I don't generally drink,”
he added, “but these crackers make me thirsty.”
“If I could only find a wife suited to my tastes,” he mused, “such a
woman as _you_ are, by George! I'd give up aesthetic burglary and settle
down to quiet domestic bliss.” He looked questioningly at me. “If”--he
hesitated--“you could be sure I would abandon my profession--would
you--do you think you could--condone my past and--marry me?”
“That is a matter for consideration,” I replied.
He helped himself to another cracker.
“Your proposal is so startlingly unique,” I continued, “to marry one's
burglar! Really it is quite a joke.”
“Isn't it?” he chuckled, evidently enjoying the idea of the oddity. “We
are kindred spirits!” he exclaimed, convivially, but was interrupted by
a violent fit of coughing.
Seizing the bottle of Burgundy, he drained the only drop or two left.
“I think, maybe, there's another bottle down in the cellar,” I cried,
artlessly. “I'll go down and see--I feel thirsty myself.”
“We will descend together,” exclaimed my burglar, gallantly taking the
candle from my hand and following me to the door leading to the cellar
steps.
We descended the steps chatting pleasantly--he discoursing on matrimony,
I answering rather vaguely, but measuring the distance to the wine bins
by my eye. They were at the far end of the cellar, and were five in
number, each large enough to hold a quarter of a ton of coal. Before the
furthest one I paused.
[Illustration: 0300]
“Here,” I said, “is the brand we are looking for.” I raised the heavy
lid and looked in. “I will hold the candle,” I observed; “will you get
the bottle? I can hardly reach it.”
He handed me the candle and bent low over the bin. Ha! ha! Quicker than
a flash of lightning I tipped up his heels (he was easily overbalanced),
and into the bin he fell headlong. Down came the heavy lid. But there
was no padlock on it. I must hurry! Blowing out the candle, I ran, for I
knew the way, straight to the cellar steps and up them--like a cat. Then
with a locked door between myself and my burglar, I could breathe.
I heard the man kicking about down below, for of course he got out of
the bin at once. But our cellar is a labyrinth. Seizing father's old gun
from its resting-place in the hall, I sat down near the door at the head
of the stairs, waiting for the worst.
The door was fairly strong--that I knew; but he was a powerful man. So I
dragged a heavy table from the sitting-room and placed it against it.
Suddenly I became conscious that he had found his way to the stairs and
was rapidly approaching the door, which was all that lay between me and
his revengeful fury.
Bracing myself against the opposite wall, I raised the old gun, and,
deliberately aiming it, waited.
He began by pounding with both fists on the door, but, not receiving any
answer, he tried threats. An instinct seemed to tell him I would remain
on guard.
His language, I must confess, while threatening, was not abusive.
It was, in fact, incredibly elegant for a burglar, and strictly
grammatical.
All at once there came a crash, followed by the creaking of heavy
timber, and the door fell. Down he came on top of it, sprawling at my
feet on the floor. I raised my gun and fired.
“Hit him?” I interrupted.
“No,” replied Miss Gwynne; “here in the wall of the dining-room the
bullet lodged, and is still there.”
The next thing I was conscious of was Mrs. Griffiths bending over me,
and her husband's voice exclaiming:
“He'd never have escaped if we had not left that door open when we came
in. You see we got home just in time to hear you fire the gun, and as we
ran in he ran out. Drat him!”