THE MONSTROSITY

Fifteen minutes after Mr. and Mrs. Lemuel Livermore, accompanied by their daughter Selma, had driven away from their comfortable West Side residence, for the purpose of attending an annual family gathering at the house of Mrs. Livermore's widowed mother, Mrs. Pease, on the opposite side of Central Park, the Livermore domestics were stirred by a more than usually imperative ring at the front door-bell. It was Christmas Eve, a season when mercantile delivery wagons may appear at any hour. Presents had been arriving all the afternoon, and the sight of a large van backed up against the curbstone occasioned no surprise.

"What are they bringing us now?" inquired Bates, the butler, who rarely condescended to open the door in the absence of the family, from his pantry.

"It looks to me something like a sofa," replied the smiling housemaid, who generally knew by instinct when the ringer was to be young and good-looking, "and the delivery gentlemen want to know where to put it."

"A sofa, is it?" exclaimed the butler, coming forward. "I'd like to know who has been silly enough to make a present of a sofa to a family who have already more household goods than they know what to do with. They'll be sending in a porcelain bath-tub next," he added with a grunt, as he unbolted the second half of the front door to make room for a cumbrous piece of furniture, just then ascending the steps apparently upon four lusty legs. "Here, you fellows, wipe your feet and put it in the parlor, and when the family comes home I bet somebody'll get a blessing."

The sofa was, in point of fact, a well-fed lounge, corpulent and plushy and be-flowered, and when, its wrappings removed, it occupied the center of the Livermore pink and white drawing-room, the Livermore bric-À-brac and bibelots and bijouterie appeared to turn a trifle pale and to shrink within themselves, as though a note of discord had distressed them.

"Lord!" said the housemaid frankly, as she regarded the latest unwelcome acquisition, "but it is a beast!"

"Sets the room off, don't it?" remarked the fattest and most optimistic of the furniture men, as he consulted a memorandum in his hat. "Come in handy, won't it, when the missus wants to snatch a nap in the afternoon?"

The butler and the housemaid exchanged a glance of tolerant pity, but such benighted ignorance of social use was beyond enlightenment.

"Best give it a good brush-up to bring out the colors," the optimist admonished, surveying his late burden admiringly.

"I wouldn't touch it with the tongs," declared the housemaid, and the butler prophesied, "It won't stop long to gather dust where it is when the missus sets eyes on it once."

"Well," moralized the other, with a comprehensive glance about the room, "it's certainly a fact that rich folks does come in for all the luck."

And so saying he withdrew, accompanied by his mate, and the bolts were shot behind them.

"Our dinner will be getting cold," observed the butler. "Go down, Mary Anne, and tell the cook I'm coming, and I'll bring down the decanters. That sherry's hardly fit to serve upstairs again."

The housemaid sniffed.

"Be careful, Mr. Bates," she cautioned him. "The old butler, Auguste, was discharged because he found so many bottles of champagne that were unfit to serve upstairs."

"Auguste," rejoined the butler, "was a French duffer. He ought to have known that even broad-minded gentlemen always count champagne."

"Shall we leave the lights all burning in the parlor?" asked the housemaid.

"Certainly," replied Bates; "it wouldn't do for the missus to stumble over that thing in the dark."

"Lord!" said the housemaid, with a parting glance across her shoulder. "Lord! but it is a beast."

"An out and out monstrosity," the butler agreed.

Time passed; the servants went their ways; the parlor gas purred soothingly; the bric-À-brac engaged in whispered consultation. Whatever happened, the monstrosity should be made to feel its isolation—and it did. It stood a thing apart from its environment; it seemed to sigh, and presently its plebeian breast began to heave as with emotion. A crack developed in its tufted side, a pair of eyes appeared within the crack. The gas purred on; sounds from the servants' hall below suggested that the sherry had begun to express itself in terms of merriment. The crack grew wider until the sofa opened like a fat and flowery trunk. The eyes became a head, the head a man, who sat upon the sofa's edge and looked about him.

"All zings is the same," he murmured to himself in broken English. "Nothing is changed except that ze arrangements are in less taste zan in my time. Ah, people do not know when zay have ze good fortune."

He sighed, and, rising, ventured one large foot, encased in a felt shoe, upon the rug. He stood and gazed about him lovingly, as one who contemplates inanimate things once dear. He moved with noiseless caution to the nearest door and disappeared. Presently he returned, bearing a salver laden with pieces of silver from the dining-room—an ice-pitcher, an epergne, some dishes; these he proceeded deftly to roll in flannel bags, depositing each with loving care in the interior of the Monstrosity. Another expedition resulted in an equally attractive lot of plate, to be bestowed as carefully. Next, stepping to the mantel-piece, he selected a modest pair of Dresden images from the assortment there displayed.

"These," he soliloquized, "are mine undoubtedly. I might have broken them a thousand times and did not, and, therefore, they are mine."

He laid the figures tenderly and almost with a sigh beside the silver and closed the heavy tufted lid upon them.

"I will go upstairs for ze last time," he mused, a trace of sadness on his Gallic features, "and behold if Madame is still as careless with her jewel-box as in old days. I will ascertain for myself if Monsieur still sticks his scarf-pins in ze pin-cushion.... Ah, but it is depressing to revisit once familiar scenes. It makes one shed ze tear."

The tall clock in the hall struck half-past eight.

Even as the clock struck the butler below was rising to propose a toast.

"'Here's to those that love us,'" it began, and went on: "'Here's to us that love those,'"—but as this was not the way it should have gone on, the butler paused and blinked in disapproval at the cook, who laughed.

"'Here's to those that love those that love those that love those,'" he persisted solemnly, and might have continued the hierarchy still further had not an electric summons from the front door interrupted him.

"Sakes!" cried the cook, "what can that be?"

"More presents," the housemaid suggested.

"Another monstrosity, I'll be bound," the butler chuckled, stumbling from the room. "Let'sh all go shee about it."

He climbed the stairs unsteadily, and made his way along the hall with noticeable digressions from an even course.

"'Here's to those that love us that love them,'" he caroled cheerily, and when, with fumbling fingers, he had thrown the front door open, his eyes, still blinking, failed to perceive for the moment that Mr. Livermore himself stood on the threshold, surrounded by some half a score of muffled figures.

"Bates," began Mr. Livermore, "I forgot my latch-key, and ..."

"Get away with you," cried cheerful Mr. Bates; "we've got all the monstrosities we want already. 'Here's to them that love them that we love' ..."

"Bates," said Mr. Livermore, "you're drunk."

"Shir," said Bates; "shir, I ashure you sherry was not fit to sherve upstairs."

"Bates," said Mr. Livermore, "you are very drunk."

"Shir," said Bates, "shir, I ashure you it's all owing to that monstrosity. Monstrosity not fit to sherve upstairs."

Meanwhile Mrs. Livermore had lost no time in pushing past her husband into the hall, followed by Selma, followed by her widowed mother, Mrs. Pease, and Mr. Bertram Pease, her brother, and Miss McCunn, to whom Mr. Pease was supposed to be attentive, and Cousin Laura Fanshaw, and the two Misses Mapes, and Mr. Sellars, and Doctor Van Cott, all old friends, and a young gentleman by the name of Mickleworth, whom nobody knew much about, except Selma, who, for reasons of her own, kept her knowledge to herself. He had been invited to the family party as a chum of Cousin Dick Busby's, and was to have come with Dick, but the latter gentleman, at the last moment having received a more promising invitation, had sent word that he was ill.

While Mr. Livermore drew Bates aside, the housemaid busied herself with the ladies' wraps.

"You're through dinner early, ma'am," she said to Mrs. Livermore.

"We haven't had any dinner, Mary Anne," replied her mistress. "Mother's range exploded, or something awful happened to the pipes just after we sat down, and everything was ruined. So we brought the entire party here in cabs. Tell cook she must give us some sort of a meal at once ... canned tomato soup to begin with, followed by cold canned tongue, and ..."

"The breakfast fishballs," suggested Mary Anne.

"Excellent!" exclaimed her mistress. "And after that we might have ..."

"Marmalade," suggested Mary Anne.

"And buckwheat cakes," Selma interrupted.

"Of course," her mother acquiesced, "that will have to do ... with lots of bread and butter.... And now," she added cheerfully, turning to her guests, "we'll all go into the drawing-room and guess conundrums till dinner is ready. How fortunate it was that we had had our oysters before the accident!"

"My dear," said Mr. Livermore in a whisper, "I fear that Bates is hopelessly intoxicated."

"Oh, Lemuel, what are we to do?" gasped the hostess, clutching the hat-rack for support.

They were alone together in the hall and face to face with a dilemma.

"I give it up," said Mr. Livermore.

"You can't," rejoined his wife. "You'll have to think of something."

"Perhaps," suggested the gentleman foolishly, "an angel might be induced to come down from heaven...."

But his words were truer than he thought; a figure which had been creeping unobserved down the stairs now stood before them.

"Auguste!" gasped Mrs. Livermore, with an almost superstitious start.

"Yes, Madame," replied her former servant, while his benignant smile brought reassurance; "it is I. I have taken ze liberty of dropping in to wish Madame a merry Christmas."

"Thank Heaven!" cried the Hostess, restraining her impulse to fall upon his neck. "Now you must stay and help us out of our difficulties. You know exactly where all the silver is."

"Perfectly," replied the man respectfully, "and it will give me great pleasure to once more serve Madame."

"Auguste," said Mr. Livermore, "let bygones be forgotten. Go quickly and set the table, and put on everything to make it look attractive."

"Pardon, Monsieur," Auguste protested, "might it not seem out of place to display too much silver at such a simple meal?"

"He is right," declared Mrs. Livermore, "Auguste is right. His taste was always perfect—even in champagne."

Further discussion was prevented for the time by Selma's appearance at the drawing-room door, convulsed with mirth. Close at her side stood Mr. Mickleworth, also laughing.

"Oh, mamma!" cried the daughter of the house, "will you come and see what somebody has sent us as a present? The ugliest thing conceivable, an absolute monstrosity."

But the Livermores were thankful for the sofa, and the diversion which it brought. As no one present could possibly have made such a choice, they felt at liberty to abuse it to their hearts' content, and they stood just then in dire need of something to abuse ... until the fishballs filled the atmosphere with welcome fragrance.

Later, after Auguste had compounded his celebrated punch, they said some most amusing things about the lounge.

"It would make a capital wedding gift," laughed Mr. Livermore, with a sly glance at Mr. Bertram Pease, and Miss McCunn declared that she would die single rather than begin married life in the society of the monstrosity.

As time went on the spirit of the joyous season filled the company, and Yule-tide pastimes were suggested.

"In my young days," said Mrs. Pease, growing distinctly sporty, "we used to play hide-and-seek all over the old homestead, and whoever found the person hiding was entitled to a kiss."

"Capital!" pronounced Doctor Van Cott, debating which of the Misses Mapes a prosperous practitioner would be most fortunate in finding.

"Let's play it now," cried Uncle Bertram, knowing quite well whom he himself should seek most diligently.

"Good!" put in Mr. Mickleworth, "I'll be It first. All go into the little smoking-room, and when I say 'Coo' come out and look for me." To Selma he added, in a whisper, "If you, while searching, should hum 'In the Gloaming' softly, may I scratch to let you know where I am?"

Miss Livermore blushed.

Now, of course, the game was all a joke, not to be taken seriously, and to make the situation funnier, Mr. Mickleworth, who, in his boarding-house commonly kept his evening clothes in a divan box, went direct to the monstrosity and climbed in, closing the lid upon himself. But, as it happened, Mr. Mickleworth's box was old-fashioned and unprovided with the latest patent catch, impregnable to those unacquainted with the combination. His position, therefore, in the lounge's dark interior must have been alarming for a moment, had he not discovered an ample breathing hole, concealed from outward observation by a fringe. Some bundles, hard and angular, occasioned but a trifling inconvenience at his feet.

"Coo!" cried Mr. Mickleworth through the hole, when he had allowed sufficient time to mystify his fellow players. But for a moment it seemed to him that the others had not been playing fair, for there were voices speaking close to him.

"Say, you're a slick one, Frenchy," somebody remarked in unfamiliar accents. "You'll have your picture in the Gallery yet."

"Zat is all right," a foreign voice replied, "I know my business."

Now others appeared to join in the conversation, and it became evident that the entire company had entered.

"Let me out!" cried Mr. Mickleworth, but in the general Babel no one heard, and presently Mrs. Livermore's silvery notes were audible above the rest.

"It was a very stupid mistake," she said. "You should have known such an ugly thing could not be for us. Please take it away at once, and another time be more careful about reading the address."

"I'm sorry, mum," retorted somebody, "but I do hope you won't go for to report us to the firm? We're just pore workingmen."

"You have probably been drinking," put in Mr. Livermore magnanimously, "and as it is Christmas we will overlook the error. Auguste, see that they do not scratch the wood-work."

"Hurrah!" cried Selma joyfully. "It's going. The Monstrosity is being taken away. I hope whoever gets it will appreciate its merits more than we did."

"Let me out! Let me out!" cried Mr. Mickleworth, but by this time all the guests were chattering louder than ever.

Doctor Van Cott and the two Misses Mapes joined hands and danced as King David did before the Ark. Mr. Bertram Pease at the piano began to play the first selection that occurred to him, which chanced to be the Wedding March. The others clapped their hands and cheered.

"Let me out!" cried Mr. Mickleworth for the last time from his prison, but an oily apron was now pressed tight against the hole, and he caught the whispered observation:

"Say, Frenchy, you must have chucked the cat in by mistake."

He felt himself raised, jolted, tipped; he felt the chill of cold night air as it found access through the crack. He realized that he was being thrust feet first into a van and driven rapidly, he knew not where.

"And now," said Mr. Sellars, "I think we had better look for Mr. Mickleworth."

"Let us begin in the butler's pantry," suggested Cousin Laura Fanshaw, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

The Christmas party sought high and low; they penetrated to the upper floors, and not until Selma had sung "In the Gloaming" before every closet door did they give up the quest.

"It's most mysterious," asserted the host.

"It's worse," his wife corrected him; "it's most ill-bred."

"Oh, we must look again," cried Selma, now in real distress; "he may be lying somewhere faint and ill."

"Nonsense!" rejoined Mrs. Pease. "Leave him alone, and, my word for it, he will make his appearance in a little while looking silly enough. Lemuel, a glass of water, if you please."

While the good lady sank exhausted to a chair, her devoted son-in-law hastened to the dining-room to supply her want.

"The ice-pitcher is not there," he said, returning. "I'll ring."

"But the pitcher must be in its usual place on the sideboard with the other silver," his wife protested.

"But all the same, it isn't," he insisted. "There is nothing on the sideboard; not a thing. Come see for yourself."

This gave occasion for the playful aphorism concerning the inability of man to see beyond his nose, but presently a scream from Mrs. Livermore confirmed her husband's statement.

"My pitcher!" she cried piteously. "My silver dishes! My epergne! Where have they gone? Where is Auguste?"

"Auguste," said Mary Anne, who, scenting an excitement, now ran up the kitchen stairs, "has also gone. He drove off with the sofa in the van."

"With the sofa?"

"Yes, ma'am; sitting on it."

"Robbed!" cried Mr. Livermore, with a lightning flash of keen conviction, and the entire company repeated in a hollow chorus:

"Robbed!"

But Mr. Livermore's lightning, after the manner of such fluids, was not satisfied to score a single bull's-eye.

"It was a deep conspiracy," he went on, becoming clairvoyant, "and ten to one that Mickleworth young man was in the plot."

"You shall not say such horrid things of him, papa," cried Selma.

"A thief!" persisted Mr. Livermore, disregarding her. "A villain in disguise! I don't believe that this impostor was ever Cousin Dick's old chum."

"Oh, papa," Selma interrupted, trembling; "Dick himself introduced Mr. Mickleworth to me at Southampton last summer. I did not tell you about it till you could know him and see how nice he is."

"Nice?" gasped her mother. "Nice?"

"Yes, mamma," Selma cried, sobbing, but still undaunted; "awfully nice, and he can write the most respectful little notes."

"Notes?" screamed her mother. "Selma, you stand there and tell me you have corresponded with a burglar? Oh, that I should have lived to see this day!"

Miss McCunn, much disturbed, had retired to the smoking-room, where Mr. Bertram Pease did all he could to comfort her. Doctor Van Cott on the stairs had put an impartial arm about each of the Misses Mapes. Cousin Laura Fanshaw, behind a screen, wept copiously on Mr. Sellars's left lapel.

"In my young days," said Mrs. Pease, "we kept a closer watch on both our children and our silverware."

"Mother," cried Mrs. Livermore, "don't make things worse by being aggravating. Poor Selma is suffering enough."

"I am not suffering at all," protested Selma stoutly. "My faith in George remains unshaken."

"George!" ejaculated her mother. "Lemuel, do you hear?"

"I do," replied Mr. Livermore, "and I'll attend to George's case just as soon as I can get Mulberry Street on the telephone."

"Stop!" cried his wife; "we must avoid a scandal."

The doorbell, which had taken such an active part in this eventful evening, now rang again. A silence followed, while the form of Bates was seen to pass through the hall. Then, almost with his accustomed dignity, though somewhat pale and wet about the head, he reappeared.

"Mr. Mickleworth!" he announced.

"I knew it!" Selma cried, with jubilation.

And Mr. Mickleworth it was, in truth, though much disheveled as to dress. A streak of mud lay on his rumpled shirtfront, and his evening coat suggested active combat. From each shoulder hung a nosebag, such as teamsters use for feeding horses in the street, and each bag bulged with priceless silver heirlooms. Behind him came a stalwart minion of the law, bearing the family ice-pitcher on a massive salver.

"Ah, ha!" cried Mr. Livermore complacently. "So, ho! 'Caught with the goods on,' as you say officially. You have done well, officer, and this night's work shall not go unrewarded."

"It wasn't me," the policeman protested ungrammatically; "this here young feller did it all himself."

"That we already know," said Mrs. Livermore.

"Be quiet, my child, until we hear the story," put in Mrs. Pease, who usually objected to her daughter's methods.

And the policeman told his tale.

"This here young chap," he said, with generous fervor, "must be a regular Herculaneum. He burst the lock and stopped the van and knocked two of the robbers out of time. When I came up he had the Frenchman by the throat, a-rolling of him in the mud. All I had to do was to ring for the patrol, and help him bring the stuff right back to you for recognition."

"Ahem!" said Mr. Livermore. "Ahem! Ahem!"

"Papa," cried Selma, while tears of triumph made her eyes more bright, "aren't you going to shake hands with George?"

And thereupon Mr. Livermore cordially enough did shake hands with George.

"Papa," said Selma, "won't you tell George that his part in this night's work shall not go unrewarded?"

"Oh, tell him that yourself," cried old Mrs. Pease impatiently.

In the drawing-room Mr. Bertram Pease was playing the Wedding March.