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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/16454-8.txt b/16454-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..55561a5 --- /dev/null +++ b/16454-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6156 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Upas Tree, by Florence L. Barclay + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Upas Tree + A Christmas Story for all the Year + +Author: Florence L. Barclay + +Release Date: August 6, 2005 [EBook #16454] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UPAS TREE *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Janet Blenkinship and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + +[Illustration: "That figure was not his own." + +From a drawing by F.H. Townsend. (_page 202_)] + +The Upas Tree + +_A Christmas Story for all the Year_ + +By + +Florence L. Barclay + +_Author of "The Rosary," etc_ + + +G.P. Putnam's Sons + +New York and London + +The Knickerbocker Press + +1912 + +COPYRIGHT, 1912 + +BY + +FLORENCE L. BARCLAY + + +The Knickerbocker Press, New York + +To + +V.C.B. + +53-22146 CONTENTS + +PART I + +CHAPTER PAGE + + I.--WHICH SHALL SPEAK FIRST? 13 + + II.--THE SOB OF THE WOMAN 29 + + III.--HELEN TAKES THE INITIATIVE 40 + + IV.--FIRELIGHT IN THE STUDIO 44 + + +PART II + + V.--THE INFANT OF PRAGUE 67 + + VI.--AUBREY PUTS DOWN HIS FOOT 97 + + VII.--A FRIEND IN NEED 113 + +VIII.--PARADISE LOST 129 + + IX.--THE PINNACLE OF THE TEMPLE 137 + + +PART III + + X.--RONNIE ARRIVES IN A FOG 149 + + XI.--THE MIRAGE 160 + + XII.--A FRIEND IN DEED 174 + + XIII.--RONNIE FACES THE UPAS 192 + + XIV.--AS IN A MIRROR 200 + + +PART IV + + XV.--"THE FOG LIFTS" 209 + + XVI.--"HE _MUST_ REMEMBER" 223 + + XVII.--"HE NEVER KNEW!" 246 + +XVIII.--THE FACE IN THE MIRROR 258 + + XIX.--UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN 271 + + XX.--GOOD-NIGHT TO THE INFANT OF + PRAGUE 283 + + + + +Part I CHAPTER I + +WHICH SHALL SPEAK FIRST? + + +Ronald West stood at the window of his wife's sitting-room, looking +across the bright garden-borders to the wide park beyond, and wondering +how on earth he should open the subject of which his mind had been full +during their morning ride. + +He had swung off his own horse a few moments before; thrown the bridle +to a waiting groom, and made his way round to her stirrup. Then he had +laid his hand upon Silverheels' mane, and looking up into his wife's +glowing, handsome face, he had said: "May I come to your room for a +talk, Helen? I have something very important to tell you." + +Helen had smiled down upon him. + +"I thought my cavalier was miles away from his horse and his wife, +during most of the ride. But, if he proposes taking me on the same +distant journey, he shall be forgiven. Also, I have something to tell +_you_, Ronnie, and I see the turret clock gives us an hour before +luncheon. I must scribble out a message for the village; then I will +come to you at once, without stopping to change." + +She laid her hand on his shoulder, and dropped lightly to the ground. +Then, telling the groom to wait, she passed into the hall. + +Ronald left her standing at the table, walked into the sitting-room +alone, and suddenly realised that when you have thought of a thing +continuously, day and night, during the best part of a week, and kept it +to yourself, it is not easy to begin explaining it to another +person--even though that other person be your always kind, always +understanding, altogether perfect wife! + +He had forgotten to leave his hat and gloves in the hall. He now tossed +them into a chair--Helen's own particular chair it so happened--but kept +his riding-crop in his hand, and thwacked his leather gaiters with it, +as he stood in the bay window. + +It was such a perfect spring morning! The sun shone in through the +old-fashioned lattice panes. + +Some silly old person of a bygone century had scratched with a diamond +on one of these a rough cross, and beneath it the motto: _In hoc vince_. + +Ronald had inveighed against this. If Helen's old ancestor, having +nothing better to do, had wanted to write down a Latin motto, he should +have put it in his pocket-book, or, better still, on the even more +transitory pages of the blotter, instead of scribbling on the beautiful +diamond panes of the old Grange windows. But Helen had laughed and said: +"I should think he lived before the time of blotters, dear! No doubt the +morning sun was shining on the glass, Ronnie, as he stood at the +window. It was of the cross gleaming in the sunlight, that he wrote: _In +this conquer_. If we could but remember it, the path of self-sacrifice +and clear shining is always the way to victory." + +Helen invariably stood up for her ancestors, which was annoying to a +very modern young man who, not being aware of possessing any, considered +ancestors unnecessary and obsolete. + +But to-day the glittering letters shone out to him as an omen. + +He meant to conquer, in this, as in all else. + +It was curious that Helen should have chanced upon the simile of a +distant journey. Another good omen! _In hoc vince!_ + +He heard her coming. + +Now--how should he begin? He must be very tactful. He must break it to +her gently. + +Helen, closing the door behind her, came slowly down the sunny room. The +graceful lines of her tall figure looked well, in the severe simplicity +of her riding-habit. Her mass of beautiful hair was tucked away beneath +her riding-hat. But nothing could take from the calm sweetness of her +face, nor the steady expectant kindness of her eyes. Helen's eyes always +looked out upon the world, as if they expected to behold a Vision +Beautiful. + +As she moved towards the bay window, she was considering whether she +would decide to have her say first, or whether she would let Ronnie +begin. Her wonderful news was so all-important. Having made up her mind +that the time had come when she might at last share it with Ronnie, it +seemed almost impossible to wait one moment before telling him. On the +other hand, it would be so absorbing to them both, that probably +Ronnie's subject would be allowed to lapse, completely forgotten and +unmentioned. Nothing which was of even the most transitory interest to +Ronnie, ever met this fate at his wife's hands. Therefore the very +certainty that her news would outweigh his, inclined her to let him +speak first. + +She was spared the responsibility of decision. + +Ronald, turning quickly, faced his wife. Hesitation seemed futile; +promptness, essential. _In hoc vince!_ + +"Helen," he said, "I want to go to Central Africa." + +Helen looked at him in silence, during a moment of immense astonishment. + +Then she lifted his hat and gloves, laid them upon a table, seated +herself in her easy-chair, and carefully flicked some specks of dust +from her riding-habit. + +"That is a long way to want to go, darling," she said, quietly. "But I +can see you think something of imperative importance is calling you +there. Sit down and tell me all about it, right from the beginning. It +is a far cry from our happy, beautiful life here, to Central Africa. You +have jumped me to the goal, without any knowledge of the way. Now +suppose you take me gently along your mental route." + +Ronald flung himself, with a sigh of relief, into the deep basket-work +chair opposite Helen's. His boyish face cleared visibly; then +brightened into enthusiasm. He stretched out his legs, put his hands +behind his head, and looked admiringly across at his wife. + +"Helen, you are so perfectly splendid in always understanding, always +making it quite easy for a fellow to tell you things. You have a way of +looking past all minor details, straight to the great essentials. Most +women would stand----" + +"Never mind what most women would do, Ronnie. I never stand, if I can +sit down! It is a waste of useful energy. But you must tell me 'the +great essentials,' as they appear to you, if I am to view them properly. +Why do you want to go to Central Africa?" + +Ronald leapt up and stood with his back to the mantel-piece. + +"Helen, I have a new plot; a quite wonderful love-story; better than +anything I have done yet. But the scene is laid in Central Africa, and I +must go out there to get the setting vivid and correct. You remember how +thrilled we were the other day, by the account of that missionary chap, +who disappeared into the long grass, thirteen feet high, over twenty +years ago; lived and worked among the natives, cut off from all +civilisation; then, at last, crawled out again and saw a railway train +for the first time in twenty-three years; got on board, and came home, +full of wonderful tales of his experiences? Well--you know how, after he +had been out there a few years, he found he desperately needed a wife; +remembered a plucky girl he had known when he was a boy in England, and +managed to get a letter home, asking her to come out to him? She came, +and safely reached the place appointed, at the fringe of the wild +growth. There she waited several months. But at last the man who had +called to her in his need, crawled out of the long grass, took her to +himself, and they crawled in again--man and wife--and were seen no more, +until they reappeared many years later. Well--that true story has given +me the idea of a plot, which will, I verily believe, take the world by +storm! So original and thrilling! Far beyond any missionary +love-stories." + +Helen's calm eyes looked into the excited shining of his. + +"Dear, why shouldn't a missionary's love-story be as exciting as any +other? I don't quite see how you can better the strangely enthralling +tale to which we listened." + +"Ah, don't you?" cried Ronald West. "That's because you are not a writer +of romances! My dear girl, _two_ men crawled out of the long grass +thirteen feet high, at the place where the woman was waiting! Two +men--do you see? And the man who crawled out first was _not_ the man who +had sent for her! _He_ turned up just too late. Now, do you see?" + +"I see," said Helen. "Thirteen is always apt to be an unlucky number." + +"Oh, don't joke!" cried Ronald. "I haven't time to tell you, now, how it +all works out. But it's quite the strongest thing I've thought of yet. +And do you see what it means to me? Think of the weird, mysterious +atmosphere of Central Africa, as a setting for a really strong +love-interest. Imagine three quite modern, present-day people, learning +to know their own hearts and each other's, fighting out the crisis of +their lives according to the accepted rules and standards of twentieth +century civilisation--yet all amongst the wild primitive savagery of +uncivilised tribes, and the extraordinary primeval growths of the +unexplored jungles, where plants ape animals, and animals ape men, and +all nature rears its head with a loose rein, as if defying method, law, +order and construction! Why, merely to walk through some of the tropical +houses at Kew gives one a sort of lawless feeling! If I stay long among +the queer gnarled plants--all spiky and speckled and hairy; squatting, +plump and ungainly on the ground, or spreading huge knotted arms far +overhead, as if reaching out for things they never visibly attain--I +always emerge into the ordinary English atmosphere outside, feeling +altogether unconventional. As I walk across the well-kept lawns, I find +it almost difficult to behave with decorum. It takes me quite a long +time to become really common-place and conventional once more." + +Helen smiled. "Darling," she said, "I think you must have visited the +tropical plants in Kew Gardens more frequently than I realised! I shall +have to forbid Kew, when certain important County functions are +pending." + +"Oh, bother the County!" cried Ronnie. "I never went in for a French +dancing-master to bid me mind my P's and Q's! But, seriously, Helen, +don't you understand how much this means to me? Both my last novels have +had tame English settings. I can't go on forever letting my people make +love in well-kept gardens!" + +"Dear Ronnie, you have a good precedent. The first couple on record made +love in a garden." + +"Nonsense, darling! Eden was a quite fascinating jungle, in which all +the wild animals conversed with intelligence and affability. You don't +suppose Eve would have stood there alone, calmly listening while the +serpent talked theology, unless conversations with animals had been an +every-day occurrence. Think how you'd flee to me, if an old cow in the +park suddenly asked you a question. But do let's keep to the point. I've +got a new plot, and I must have a new setting." + +"Why not be content to do as you have done before, Ronnie; go on +writing, simply and sincerely, of the life you live and know?" + +"Because, my dear girl, in common with the Athenians, people are always +wanting either to tell or to hear some new thing. I've got hold of a +jolly new thing, and I'm going to run it for all it's worth." + +Helen considered this in silence. + +Ronald walked over to the window, and beat a tattoo upon the _In hoc +vince_ pane. + +"Do you see?" he asked. + +"Yes," she answered, slowly. "I see your point, but I also see danger +ahead. I am so anxious that, in your work, you should keep the object +and motive at the highest; not putting success or popularity in their +wrong place. Let success be the result of good work well +done--conscientiously done. Let popularity follow unsought, simply from +the fact that you have been true to yourself, and to your instinctive +inspiration; that you have seen life at its best, and tried to portray +it at its highest. To go rushing off to Central Africa in order to find +a startling setting, is an angling after originality, which will by no +means ensure doing really better work. Oh, Ronnie, my advice is: be +content to stay at home, and to write truly and sincerely of the things +you know." + +Ronald came back to his chair; sat down, his elbows on his knees, his +chin in his hands, and looked earnestly into the troubled eyes of his +wife. + +"But, Helen," he said, "that really is not the point. Can't you see that +I am completely possessed by this new plot? Also, that Central Africa is +its only possible setting? It is merely a satisfactory side-issue, that +it varies my _mise-en-scène_." + +"Must you go off there, Ronnie, in order to write it? Why not get all +the newest and best books on African travel, and read up facts----" + +"Never!" cried Ronald, on his feet again, and walking up and down the +room. "I must be steeped in the wonderful African atmosphere, before I +can sub-consciously work it into my book. No account of other men's +travels could do this for me. Besides, one might get all the main things +correct, yet make a slip in some little unimportant detail. Then, +by-and-by, some Johnny would come along, who could no more have written +a page of your book than he could fly, but who happens to be intimately +acquainted with the locality. He ignores the plot, the character-study, +all the careful work on the essentials; but he spots your trivial error +concerning some completely unimportant detail. So off he writes to the +papers, triumphantly airing his little tit-bit of superior information; +other mediocre people take it up--and you never hear the end of it." + +Helen laughed, tender amusement in her eyes. + +"Ronnie dear, I admit that not many Johnnies could write your books. +But most Johnnies can fly, now-a-days! You must be more up-to-date in +your similes, old boy; or you will have your wife writing to the papers, +remarking that you are behind the times! But, seriously, Ronnie, you +should be grateful to anybody who takes the trouble to point out an +error, however small, in one of your books. You are keen that your work +should be perfect; and if a mistake is mentioned, it can be set right. +Why, surely you remember, when you read me the scene in the manuscript +you wrote just after our marriage, in which a good lady could not sit +down upon a small chair, owing to her _toupet_, I--your admiring and +awestruck wife--ventured to point out that a _toupet_ was not a +crinoline; and you were quite grateful, Ronnie. You did not consider me +an unappreciative Johnny, nor even a mediocre person! Who has, unknown +to me, been trampling on your susceptibilities?" + +"Nobody, thank goodness! I have never written a scene yet, of which I +had not carefully verified every detail of the setting. But it has +happened lots of times to people I know. Unimportant slips never seem to +me to matter in another fellow's work, but they would matter +desperately, horribly, appallingly in one's own. Therefore, nothing will +ever induce me to place the plot of a novel of mine, in surroundings +with which I am not completely familiar. Helen--I must go to Central +Africa." + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE SOB OF THE WOMAN + + +Helen took off her riding-hat, and passed her fingers through the +abundant waves of her hair. + +"How long would it take you, Ronnie?" "Well--including the journey out, +and the journey back, I ought to have a clear seven months. If we could +get off in a fortnight, we might be back early in November; anyway, in +plenty of time for Christmas." + +"Why do you say 'we,' darling?" + +"Why not say 'we'? We always do, don't we?" + +"Yes, dear. For three happy years it has always been 'we,' in +everything. We have not been parted for longer than twelve hours at a +time, Ronnie. But I fear Central Africa cannot be 'we.' I do not feel +that I could go out there with you." + +"Helen! Why not? I thought you would be keen on it. I thought you were +game to go anywhere!" Amazement and dismay were in his eyes. + +She rose slowly, went over to the mantel-piece, moved some little +porcelain figures, then put them back again. + +When at length she spoke, she steadied her voice with an effort. + +"Ronnie dear, Central Africa is not a place for a woman." + +"But, my dearest girl, a woman arrives there in my story! She crawls +into the long grass with the man she loves, and disappears. Our +missionary's bride did it. Where a woman could not go, _I_ must not go +for my local colour. Oh, I say, Helen! You won't fail me?" + +He walked over to the window, and drummed again, with restless, nervous +fingers, upon the _In hoc vince_ pane. + +She came behind him, laying her hand on his shoulder. + +"Darling, it will break my heart if you think I am failing you. But, +while you have been talking, I have faced the matter out, and--I must +tell you at once--I cannot feel it either right or possible to go. I +could not be away just now, for seven months. This place must be looked +after. Think of the little church we are building in the village; the +farms changing tenants this summer; the hundred and one things I, and I +only, must settle and arrange. You never see the bailiff; you hardly +know the tenants; you do not oversee the workpeople. So you can scarcely +judge, dear Ronnie, how important is my presence here; how almost +impossible it would be for me suddenly to go completely out of reach. My +darling--if you keep to it, if you really intend to go, we must face the +fact that it will mean, for us, a long parting." + +The tension of suspense held the stillness of the room. + +Then: "It is my profession," said Ronald West, huskily. "It is my +career." + +She moved round and faced him. They stood looking at one another, +dumbly. + +She knew all that was in his mind, and most that was in his heart. + +He knew nothing of that which filled her mind at the moment, and only +partly realised the great, unselfish love for him which filled her +heart. + +He was completely understood. He rested in that fact, without in the +least comprehending his own lack of comprehension. + +Moving close to him, she laid both hands upon his shoulders, hiding her +face in silence against his breast. + +He stroked her soft hair--helplessly, tenderly. + +With his whole heart he loved her, leaned upon her, needed her. She had +done everything for him; been everything to him. + +But he meant to carry his point. He intended to go to Central Africa, +and it was no sort of good pretending he did not. You never pretended +with Helen, because she saw through you immediately, and usually told +you so. + +He had not spent a single night away from her since that wonderful day +when, calm and radiant, she had moved up the church in presence of an +admiring crowd, and taken her place at his side. + +He was practically unknown then, as a writer. No one but Helen believed +in him, or understood what he had it in him to accomplish. Whereas Helen +herself was the last representative of an ancient County family, owner +of Hollymead Grange, and of a considerable income; courted, admired, +sought after. Yet she gave herself to him, in humble tenderness. Helen +had a royal way of giving. The very way she throned you in her heart, +dropped you on one knee before her footstool. + +He had fully justified her belief in him; but he well knew how much of +his success he owed to her. Their love had taught him lessons, given him +ideals which had not been his before. + +But there was nothing selfish or sentimental about Helen. When the most +sacred of their experiences crept into his work, and stood revealed for +all the world to read; when his art transferred to hard type, and to the +black and white of print and paper, the magic thrill of Helen's +tenderness, so that all her friends could buy it for four shillings and +sixpence, and discuss it at leisure, Helen never winced. She only smiled +and said: "The world has a right to every beautiful thing we can give +it. I have always felt indignant with the people who collect musical +instruments which they have no intention of playing; who lock up Strads +and Cremonas in glass cases, thus holding them dumb for ever to the +eager ear of a listening world." + +Only once, when he had put into a story a tender little name by which +Helen sometimes called him, unable to resist giving his hero the bliss +he, on those rare occasions, himself felt--he found a firm pencil line +drawn through the words, when he looked at the proof sheets, after Helen +had returned them to his desk. She never mentioned the matter to him, +nor did he speak of it to her; but his hero had to forego that +particular thrill, and it was a long time before Ronald himself heard +again the words Helen had deleted. + +He heard them now, however--murmured very softly; and he caught her to +him with sudden passion, kissing her hair. + +Yet he meant to go. _In hoc vince_. He must conquer his very need of +her, if it came between him and the best thing he had yet done in his +work. + +He could not face the thought of the parting; but there was no need to +face that as yet. A whole fortnight intervened. It is useless to suffer +a pang until the pang is actually upon you. Besides, every +experience--however hard to bear--is of value. How much more harrowing +and vivid would be his next description of a parting---- + +Then, suddenly, Ronald felt ashamed. His arms dropped from around her. +He knew himself unworthy--in a momentary flash of self-revelation he +knew himself utterly unworthy--of Helen's generous love, and noble +womanhood. + +"My wife," he said, "I won't go. It isn't worth it." + +Her arms strained around him, and he heard her sob; and, alas--it was +the sob of the woman in the long grass, when she clung to the man who +had crawled out first. His plot stood out to him once more as the +supreme thing. + +"At least," he added, "it wouldn't be worth it, if it costs you so much. +It _is_ my strongest plot, but I will give it up if you would rather I +stayed at home." + +Then Helen loosed her detaining arms, and lifting a brave white face, +smiled at him through her tears. + +"No, Ronnie," she said. "I promised, when we married, always to help you +with your work and to make it easy. I am not going to fail you now. If +the new book requires a parting, we will face it bravely. At the present +moment we both need luncheon, and I must get out of my habit. Ring, and +tell them we shall not be ready for a quarter of an hour, there's a dear +boy! And think of something really funny to tell me at lunch. +Afterwards we will discuss plans." + +She had reached the door when Ronald suddenly called after her: "Helen! +Hadn't you something to tell me, too?" + +She turned in the doorway. Her face was gay with smiles. + +"Oh, mine must wait," she said. "Your new plot, and the wonderful +journey it involves, require our undivided attention." + +The sun shone very brightly just then. It touched the halo of Helen's +soft hair, turning it to gold. _In hoc vince_ gleamed upon the pane. + +For a moment she stood in the doorway, giving him a chance to insist +upon hearing that which she had to tell. But Ronald, easily satisfied, +turned and rang the bell. + +"All right, sweet," he said. "How lovely you look in the sunshine! If it +was business, or anything worrying, I would certainly rather not hear it +now. You have bucked me up splendidly, Helen. Seven months seem nothing; +and my whole mind is bounding forward into my story. I really must give +you an outline of the plot." He followed her into the hall. "Helen! Do +come back for a minute." + +But Helen was half way up the stairs. He heard her laugh as she reached +the landing. + +"I am hungry, dear," she called over the banisters, "and so are you, +only you don't know it! Crawl out of your long grass, and make yourself +presentable before the gong sounds; or I shall send bananas for one, to +your study!" + +"All right!" he shouted; gave Helen's message to the butler; then went +through the billiard-room, whistling gaily. + +"Why, she is as keen as I am," he said to himself, as he turned on the +hot and cold water taps. "And she is perfectly right about not coming +with me. Of course it's jolly hard to leave her; but I believe I shall +do better work alone." + +His mind went back to Helen's bright face in the doorway. He realised +her mastery, for his sake, of her own dread of the parting. + +"What a brick she is!" he said. "Always so perfectly plucky. I don't +believe any other fellow in the world has such a wife as Helen!" + + + + +CHAPTER III + +HELEN TAKES THE INITIATIVE + + +Having once made up her mind that it was right and wise to let Ronnie +go, Helen did not falter. She immediately took control of all necessary +arrangements. Nothing was forgotten. Ronnie's outfit was managed with as +little trouble to himself as possible. They dealt together, in a gay +morning at the Stores, with all interesting items, but those he called +"the dull things" apparently selected themselves. Anyway, they all +appeared in his room, when the time came for packing. + +So whole-hearted was his wife's interest in the undertaking, that Ronnie +almost began to look upon it as her plan. + +It was she who arranged routes and booked his passages. + +When Cook's cheque had to be written it was a large one. + +Helen took out her cheque book. + +"No, no, dear," said Ronnie. "I must pay it out of my own earnings. It +is a literary speculation." + +Helen hesitated. She knew Ronnie did not realise how much the new +building and necessary repairs on the estate were costing her this year. + +"What is your balance at the bank, Ronnie?" + +"I haven't the remotest idea." + +"Darling, why don't you make a note of your last balance on your +counterfoil? Then at any moment you can add up all subsequent cheques +and see at a glance how you stand." + +"Yes, I know, you have explained all that to me before, Helen. But, you +see, most of my counterfoils are blank! I forget to fill them in. You +can't write books, and also keep accounts. If you really think it +important, I might give up the former, and turn my whole attention to +the latter." + +"Don't be silly, dear! You are blessed with a wife who keeps a careful +account of every penny of her own. But I know nothing of your earnings +and spendings, excepting when you suddenly remark at breakfast: 'Hullo! +Here's a useful little cheque for a thousand'--in much the same tone of +voice as you exclaim the next minute: 'Hullo! What excellent +hot-buttered toast!' Ronnie, I wish you would manage to invest rather +more." + +"My dear girl, I have invested heaps! You made me. But what is the use +of saving money when there are only ourselves to consider? We may as +well spend it, and have a good time. If there were kiddies to leave it +to, it would be different. I had so long of being impecunious, that I +particularly enjoy feeling bottomless! Besides, each year will bring in +more. This African book ought to be worth all the rest put together." + +Helen was silent; but she sighed as she filled in Cook's cheque and +signed it. Ronald had spoken so lightly of the great disappointment of +their married life. It was always difficult to get Ronnie to take things +seriously. The fact was: he took _himself_ so seriously, that he was +obliged to compensate by taking everything and everybody else rather +lightly. No doubt this arrangement of relative values, made for success. +Ronnie's success had been very rapid, and very brilliant. He accepted it +with the unconscious modesty of the true artist; his work meaning +immeasurably more to him than that which his work brought him, either in +praise or pennies. + +But Helen gloried in the praise, kept a watchful eye, so far as he would +let her, on the pennies; and herself ministered to the idea that all +else must be subservient, where Ronnie's literary career was concerned. + +She was ministering to it now, at a personal cost known only to her own +brave heart. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +FIRELIGHT IN THE STUDIO + + +It was Ronnie's last evening in England. The parting, which had seemed +so far away, must take place on the morrow. It took all Helen's bright +courage to keep up Ronnie's spirits. + +After dinner they sat together in a room they still called the studio, +although Helen had given up her painting, soon after their marriage. + +It was a large old-fashioned room, oak-panelled and spacious. + +A huge mirror, in a massive gilt frame, hung upon the wall opposite door +and fireplace, reaching from the ceiling to the parquet floor. + +Ronald, who used the studio as a smoking-room, had introduced three or +four deep wicker chairs, comfortably cushioned, and a couple of oriental +tables. + +The fireplace lent itself grandly in winter to great log-fires, when +the crimson curtains were drawn in ample folds over the many windows, +shutting out the dank bleakness of the park without, and imparting a +look of cosiness to the empty room. + +A dozen old family portraits--banished from more important places, +because their expressions annoyed Ronnie--were crowded into whatever +space was available, and glowered down, from the bad light to which they +had been relegated, on the very modern young man whose uncomplimentary +remarks had effected their banishment, and who sprawled luxuriously in +the firelight, monarch of all he surveyed, in the domain which for +centuries had been their own. + +The only other thing in the room was a piano, on which Ronnie very +effectively and very inaccurately strummed by ear; and on which Helen, +with careful skill, played his accompaniments, when he was seized with a +sudden desire to sing. + +Ronald's music was always a perplexity to Helen. There was a quality +about it so extraordinarily, so unusually, beautiful; combined with an +entire lack of method or of training, and a quite startling ignorance of +the most rudimentary rules. + +On one occasion, during a sharp attack of influenza, when he had +insisted upon being down and about, with a temperature of 104, he +suddenly rose from the depths of a chair in which he had been lying, +talking wild and feverish nonsense; stumbled over to the piano, dropped +heavily upon the stool, then proceeded to play and sing, in a way, which +brought tears to his wife's eyes, while her heart stood still with +anxiety and wonder. + +Yet, when she mentioned it a few days later, he appeared to have +forgotten all about it, turning the subject with almost petulant +abruptness. + + * * * * * + +But, on this their last evening together, the piano stood unheeded. They +seemed only to want two chairs, and each other. + +She could hardly take her eyes from his face, remembering how many +months must pass before she could see him again. Yet it was Ronnie who +made moan, and Helen who bravely comforted; turning as often as possible +to earnest discussion of his plot and its possibilities. But after a +while even she went under, to the thought of the nearness of the +parting. + +Though it was late in April, the evenings were chilly; a fire glowed in +the grate. + +Presently Ronnie rose, turned off the electric light, and seated himself +on the rug in the firelight, resting his head against his wife's knees. + +Silently she passed her fingers through his hair. + +Something in the quality of her silence turned Ronald's thoughts from +himself to her alone. "Helen," he said, "I hate to be leaving you. Shall +you be very lonely?" + +She could not answer. + +"You are sure your good old Mademoiselle Victorine is coming to be with +you?" + +"Yes, dear. She holds herself in readiness to come as soon as I feel +able to send for her. She and I lived alone together here during +eighteen months, after Papa's death. We were very quietly happy. I do +not see why we should not be happy again." + +"What shall you do all day?" + +"Well, I shall have my duties in the village and on the estate; and, for +our recreation, we shall read French and German, and do plenty of music. +Mademoiselle Victorine delights in playing what she calls '_des à quatre +mains_,' which consist in our both prancing vigorously upon the same +piano; she steadily punishing the bass; while I fly after her, on the +more lively treble. It is good practice; it has its fascinations, and it +will take the place of riding, for me." + +"Shan't you ride, Helen?" + +"No, Ronnie; not without you." + +"Will you and Mademoiselle Victorine drive your four-in-hands in here?" + +"No, not in here, darling. I don't think I shall be able to bear to +touch the piano on which you play to me." + +"I don't play," said Ronnie. "I strum." + +"True, dear. You often strum. But sometimes you play quite wonderfully. +I wish you had been properly taught!" + +"I always hated being taught anything," said Ronald. "I like doing +things, without learning to do them. And I know what you mean, about the +times when I really play. But, excepting when the mood is on me, I don't +care to think of those times. I never feel really myself when it +happens. I seem to be listening to somebody else playing, and trying to +remember something I have hopelessly forgotten. It gives me a strained, +uncanny feeling, Helen." + +"Does it, darling? Then let us talk of something else. Oh, Ronnie, you +must promise me to take care of your health out in that climate! I +believe you are going at the very worst time of year." + +"I have to know it at its worst and at its hottest," he said. "But I +shall be all right. I'm strong as a horse, and sound in wind and limb." + +"I hope you will get good food." + +He laughed. "I expect to have to live on just whatever I can shoot or +grub up. You see, the more completely I leave all civilisation, the more +correctly I shall get my 'copy.' I can't crawl into the long grass, +carrying tins of sardines and bottles of Bass!" + +"You might take meat lozenges," suggested Ronnie's wife. + +"Meat lozenges, darling, are concentrated nastiness. I felt like an +unhealthy bullock the whole of the rest of the day when, to please you, +I sucked one while we were mountain climbing. I propose living on +interesting and unique fruits and roots--all the things which correspond +to locusts and wild honey. But, Helen, I am afraid there will be quite a +long time during which I shall not be able either to send or to receive +letters. We shall have to console ourselves with the trite old saying: +'No news is good news.' Of course, so far as I am concerned, it would be +useless to hear of any cause for anxiety or worry when I could not +possibly get back, or deal with it." + +"You shall not hear of any worries, or have any anxieties, darling. If +difficulties arise, I will deal with them. You must keep a perfectly +free mind, all the time. For my part, I will try not to give way to +panics about you, if you will promise to cable occasionally, and to +write as often as you can." + +"_You_ won't go and get ill, will you, Helen?" + +She smiled, laying her cheek on the top of his head, as she bent over +him. + +"I never get ill, darling. Like you, I am sound in wind and limb. We are +a most healthy couple." + +"We shall both be thirty, Helen, before we meet again. You will attain +to that advanced age a month before I shall. On your birthday I shall +drink your health in some weird concoction of juices; and I shall say to +all the lions and tigers, hippopotamuses, cockatrices and asps, sitting +round my camp fire: 'You will hardly believe it, my heathen hearers, out +in this well-ordered jungle, where the female is kept in her proper +place--but my wife has had the cheek to march up to-day into the next +decade, leaving me behind in the youthful twenties!'--Oh, Helen, I wish +we had a little kiddie playing around! I am tired of being the youngest +of the family." + +She clasped both hands about his throat. He might have heard the beating +of her heart--had he been listening. + +"Ronald, that is a joy which may yet be ours--some day. But my writer of +romances, who is such a stickler for grammatical accuracy, is surely the +_younger_ of a family of _two_!" + +"Oh, grammar be--relegated to the library!" cried Ronnie, laughing. "And +you really presume too much on that one short month, Helen. You often +treat me as if I were an infant." + +The smile in her eyes held the mother look, in its yearning tenderness. + +"Ronnie dear, you _are_ so very much younger than I, in many ways; and +you always will be. Unlike the 'Infant of Days,' if you live to be a +hundred years old, you will still die young; a child in heart, full of +youth's joyous joy in living. You must not mind if your wife +occasionally treats you as though you were a dear big baby, requiring +maternal care and petting. You are such a veritable boy sometimes, and +it soothes the yearning for a little son of yours to cuddle in her arms, +when she plays that her big boy is something of a baby." + +Ronald took her left hand from about his neck, and kissed it tenderly. + +This was his only answer, but his silence meant more to Helen than +speech. Words flowed so readily to express his surface thoughts; but +when words suddenly and unexpectedly failed, a deeper depth had been +reached; and in that silence, his wife found comfort and content. + +Ronnie was not all ripples. There was more beneath than the shifting +shallows. Deep, still pools were there, and rocks on which might +eventually be built a beacon-light for the souls of men. But, as yet, it +took Helen's clear and faithful eyes to discern the pools; to perceive +the possible strong foundations. + +"Do you remember," he said presently, "the Dalmains coming over last +January, with their little Geoff? When I saw that jolly little chap +trotting about, and looking up at his mother with big shining +eyes, full of trustful love and innocent courage, absolutely +unafraid--notwithstanding her rather peremptory manner, and apparently +stern discipline--I felt that it must be the making of two people to +have such a little son as that, depending upon them to show him how to +grow up right. One would simply be obliged to live up to his baby belief +in one; wouldn't one, Helen?" + +"Yes, darling; we--we should." + +"I hope you will see a lot of the Dalmains while I am away. Try to put +in a good long visit there. And she would come over, if you wanted her, +wouldn't she?" + +"Yes; she will come if I want her." + +"You and she are great friends," pursued Ronnie, "aren't you? _I_ find +her alarming. When she looks at me, I feel such a worm. I want to slide +into a hole and hide. But there is never a hole to be found. I have to +remain erect, handing tea and bread-and-butter, while I mentally grovel. +I almost pray that a hungry blackbird or a prying thrush may chance to +come my way, and consider me juicy and appetising. You remember--the +Vicar and _Mrs._ Vicar came to tea that day. She wore brown spots. But +even the priestly blackbird, and the Levitical thrush, passed me by on +the other side." + +"Oh, Ronnie, how silly! I know Jane admires your books, darling!" + +"She considers me quite unfit to tie your shoe-strings." + +"Ronnie, be quiet! You would not be afraid of her, had you ever known +what it was to turn to her in trouble or difficulty. She helped me +through an awfully hard time, six months before I met you. She showed me +the right thing to do, then stood by me while I did it. There is nobody +in the whole world quite like her." + +"Well, send for her if you get into any troubles while I am away. I +shall feel quite brave about her being here, when I am safely hidden in +the long grass!" + +"Is there any possible chance that you will get back sooner than you +think, Ronnie?" + +"Hardly. Not before November, anyway. And yesterday my publishers were +keen that I should put in a night at Leipzig on my way home, and a night +at the Hague; show whatever 'copy' I have to firms there, and make +arrangements for German and Dutch translations to appear as soon as +possible after the English edition is out. I think I may as well do +this, and return by the Hook of Holland. I enjoy the night-crossing, and +like reaching London early in the morning. By the way, haven't you a +cousin of some sort living at Leipzig?" + +"Yes; my first cousin, Aubrey Treherne. He is studying music, and +working on compositions of his own, I believe. He lives in a flat in the +Grassi Strasse." + +"All right. Put his address in my pocket-book. I will look him up. My +special chum, Dick Cameron, is to be out there in November, +investigating one of their queer water-cures. I wish you knew Dick +Cameron, Helen. I shall hope to see him, too. Has your cousin a spare +room in his flat?" + +"I do not know. Ronnie, Aubrey Treherne is not a good man. He is not a +man you should trust." + +"Darling, you don't necessarily trust a fellow because he puts you up +for the night. But I daresay Dick will find me a room." + +"Aubrey is not a good man," repeated Helen firmly. + +"Dear, we are none of us good." + +"_You_ are, Ronnie--in the sense I mean, or I should not have married +you." + +"Oh, then, yes _please_!" said Ronnie. "I am very, very good!" + +He laughed up at her, but Helen's face was grave. Then a sudden thought +brightened it. + +"If you really go to Leipzig, Ronnie, could you look in at +Zimmermann's--a first-rate place for musical instruments of all +kinds--and choose me a small organ for the new church? I saw a little +beauty the other day at Huntingford; a perfect tone, twelve stops, and +quite easy to play. They had had it sent over from Leipzig. It cost only +twenty-four pounds. In England, one could hardly have bought so good an +instrument for less than forty. If you could choose one with a really +sweet tone, and have it shipped over here, I should be grateful." + +"With pleasure, darling. I enjoy trying all sorts of instruments. But +why economise over the organ? If my wife fancied a hundred guinea organ, +I could give it her." + +"No, you couldn't, Ronnie. You must not be extravagant." + +"I am not extravagant, dear. Buying things one can afford is not +extravagance." + +"Sometimes it is. Extravagance is not spending money. But it is paying a +higher price for a thing than the actual need demands, or than the +circumstances justify. I considered you extravagant last winter when you +paid five guineas for a box at Olympia, intended to hold eight people, +and sat in it, in solitary grandeur, alone with your wife." + +"I know you did," said Ronnie. "You left me no possible loop-hole for +doubt in the matter. But your quite mistaken view, on that occasion, +arose from an incorrect estimate of values. I paid one pound, six +shillings and three-pence for the two seats, and three pounds, eighteen +and nine-pence for the pleasure of sitting alone with my wife, and +thought it cheap at that. It was a far lower price than the actual need +demanded; therefore, by your own showing, it was not extravagant." + +"Oh, what a boy it is!" sighed Helen, with a little gesture of despair. +"Then, last Christmas, Ronnie, you insisted upon fêting the old people +with all kinds of unnecessary luxuries. They had always been quite +content with wholesome bread-and-butter, plum cake, and nice hot tea. +They did not require _pâté de foie gras_ and champagne, nor did they +understand or really enjoy them. One old lady, in considerable distress, +confided to me the fact that the champagne tasted to her 'like physic +with a fizzle in it.' It made most of them ill, Ronnie, and cost at +least eight times as much as my simple Christmas parties of other years. +So don't go and spend an unnecessary sum on an elaborate, and probably +less useful, instrument. I will write you full particulars when the time +comes. Oh, Ronnie, you will be so nearly home, by then! How shall I +wait?" + +"I shall love to feel I have something to do for you in Leipzig," said +Ronnie; "and I enjoy poking about among crowds of queer instruments. I +should like to have played in Nebuchadnezzar's band. I should have +played the sackbut, because I haven't the faintest notion how you work +the thing--whether you blow into it, or pull it in and out, or tread +upon it; nor what manner of surprising sound it emits, when you do any +or all of these things. I love springing surprises on myself and on +other people; and I know I do best the things which, if I considered the +matter beforehand, I shouldn't have the veriest ghost of a notion how to +set about doing. That, darling, is inspiration! I should have played +the sackbut by inspiration; whereupon Nebuchadnezzar would instantly +have had me cast into the burning fiery furnace." + +"Oh, Ronnie, I wish I could laugh! But to-morrow is so near. What shall +I do when there is nobody here to tell me silly stories?" + +"Ask Mademoiselle Victorine to try her hand at it. Say: 'Chère +Mademoiselle, s'il-vous-plait, racontez-moi une extrêmement sotte +histoire.'" + +"Ronnie, do stop chaffing! Go and play me something really beautiful, +and sing very softly, as you did the other night; so that I can hear the +tones of the piano and your voice vibrating together." + +"No," said Ronnie, "I can't. I have a cast-iron lump in my throat just +now, and not a note could pass it. Besides, I don't really play the +piano." + +He stretched out his foot, and kicked a log into the fire. + +The flame shot up, illumining the room. The log-fire, and the two +seated near it, were reflected fitfully in the distant mirror. + +"Helen, there is one instrument, above all others, which I have always +longed to play; yet I have never even held one in my hand." + +"What instrument is that, darling?" + +"The violoncello," said Ronnie, sitting up and turning towards her as he +spoke. "When I think of a 'cello I seem as if I know exactly how it +would feel to hold it between my knees, press my fingers up and down the +yielding strings, and draw the bow across them. Helen--if I had a 'cello +here to-night, you would listen to sounds of such exquisite throbbing +beauty, that you would forget everything in this world, my wife, +excepting that I love you." + +His eyes shone in the firelight. An older look of deeper strength and of +fuller manly vigour came into his face. The glow of love transfigured +it. + +With an uncontrollable sob, Helen stooped and laid her lips on his. + +The clock struck midnight. + +"Oh, Ronnie," she said; "oh, Ronnie! It is _to-day_, now! No longer +to-morrow--but to-day!" + +He sprang to his feet, took her hand, and drew her to the door. + +"Come, Helen," he said. + + + + +Part II + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE INFANT OF PRAGUE + + +Two men, in a flat at Leipzig, sat on either side of a tall porcelain +stove. + +The small door in the stove stood open, letting a ruddy glow shine from +within, a poor substitute for the open fires blazing merrily in England +on this chill November evening; yet giving visible evidence of the heat +contained within those cool-looking blue and white embossed tiles. + +The room itself was a curious mixture of the taste of the Leipzig +landlady, who owned and had furnished it, and of the Englishman studying +music, who was its temporary tenant. + +The high-backed sofa, upholstered in red velvet, stood stiffly against +the wall, awaiting the "guest of honour," who never arrived. It served, +however, as a resting-place for a violin, and a pile of music; while, on +the opposite side of the room, partly eclipsing a fancy picture of +Goethe, stood a chamber organ, open, and displaying a long row of varied +stops. + +Books and music were piled upon every available flat space, saving the +table; upon which lay the remains of supper. + +Of the three easy chairs placed in a semi-circle near the stove, two +were occupied; but against the empty chair in the centre, its dark brown +polished surface reflecting the glow of the fire, leaned a beautiful old +violoncello. The metal point of its foot made a slight dent in the +parquet floor. + +The younger of the two men sat well forward, elbows on knees, eyes +alight with excitement, intently gazing at the 'cello. + +The other lay back in his chair, his thin sensitive fingers carefully +placed tip to tip, his deep-set eyes scrutinising his companion. When he +spoke his voice was calm and deliberate, his manner exceedingly quiet. +His method of conversation was of the kind which drew out the full +confidence of others, while at the same time carefully insinuating, +rather than frankly expressing, ideas of his own. + +"What a rum fellow you must be, West, to pay a hundred and fifty pounds +for an instrument you have no notion of playing. Is it destined to be +kept under lock and key in a glass case?" + +"Certainly not," said Ronald West. "I shall be able to play it when I +try; and I shall try as soon as I get home." + +"Give us a sample here." + +"No, not here. I particularly wish to play it first with Helen, in the +room where I told her a 'cello was the instrument I had always wanted. +Oh, I say, isn't it a beauty! Look at those curves, and that wonderful +polish, like the richest brown of the very darkest horse-chestnut you +ever saw in a bursting bur! See how the silver strings shine in the +firelight, against the black ebony of the finger-board! It was made at +Prague, and it is a hundred and fifty years old. I call it the Infant of +Prague." + +"Why the 'Infant'?" + +"Because you have to be so careful not to bump its head as you carry it +about. Also, isn't there a verse somewhere, about an Infant of Days who +was a hundred years old, and young at that? Helen will love the Infant. +She will polish it with a silk handkerchief, and make a bed for it on +the sofa! I shan't write to her about it. I shall bring it home as a +surprise." + +He took his eyes from the 'cello and looked across at Helen's cousin; +but Aubrey Treherne instantly shifted his gaze to the unconscious +Infant. + +"Tell me how you came across it. There is no doubt you have been +fortunate enough to pick up an instrument of extraordinary value and +beauty." + +"Ah, you realise that?" cried Ronald. "Good! Well, you shall hear +exactly what happened. I arrived here early this morning, put up at a +hotel, and sallied out to interview the publishers. I had a mass of +'copy' to show them, because I have been writing incessantly the whole +way home. Curiously enough, since I left Africa, I have scarcely needed +any sleep. Snatches of half an hour seem all I require. It is convenient +when one has a vast amount of work to get through in a short space of +time." + +"Very convenient. Just the reverse of the sleeping sickness." + +"Rather! I was never fitter in my life--as I told Dick Cameron." + +Aubrey Treherne glanced at the bright burning eyes and flushed face--the +feverish blood showing, even through the tan of Africa. + +"Yes, you look jolly fit," he said. "Who is Dick Cameron?" + +"A great chum of mine. We met, as boys in Edinburgh, and were at school +together. He is the son of Colonel Cameron of Transvaal fame, killed +while leading a charge. Dick has done awfully well in the medical, +passed all necessary exams, and taken every possible degree. He is now +looking out for a practice, and meanwhile a big man in London has sent +him out to investigate one of these queer water friction +cures--professes to cure cataract and cancer and every known disease, by +simply sitting you in a tub, and rubbing you down with a dish-cloth. +Dick Cameron says--Hullo! Why are we talking of Dick Cameron? I thought +I was telling you about the 'cello." + +"You are telling me about the 'cello," said Aubrey, quietly. "But in +order to arrive at the 'cello we had to hear about your visit to the +publishers with your mass of manuscript, which resulted from having +acquired in Central Africa the useful habit of not needing more than +half an hour of sleep in the twenty-four; which, possibly, Dick Cameron +did not consider sufficient. Doctors are apt to be faddy in such +matters. Whereupon you, naturally, told him you were perfectly fit." + +"Ah, yes, I remember," said Ronnie. "Am I spinning rather a yarn?" + +"Not at all, my dear fellow. Do not hurry. We have the whole evening +before us--night, if necessary. You can put in your half-hour at any +time, I suppose; and I can dispense with sleep for once. It is not often +one has the chance of spending a night in the company of a noted +author, an African traveller straight from the jungle, and the man who +has married one's favourite cousin. I am all delighted attention. What +did your friend Dick Cameron say?" + +"Well, I met him as I was hurrying back to the hotel, carrying the +Infant, who did not appear to advantage in the exceedingly plain brown +canvas bag which was all they could give me at Zimmermann's. When I get +home I shall consult Helen, and we shall order the best case +procurable." + +"Naturally. Probably Helen will advise a bassinet by night, and a +perambulator by day." + +Ronnie looked perplexed. "Why a bassinet?" he said. + +"The _Infant_, you know." + +"Oh--ah, yes, I see. Well, of course I wanted to introduce the Infant +properly to Dick Cameron, but he objected when I began taking it out of +its bag in the street. He suggested that it might take cold--it +certainly is a dank day. Also that there are so many by-laws and +regulations in Leipzig connected with things you may not do in the +streets, that probably if you took a 'cello out of its case and stood +admiring it in the midst of the crowded thoroughfare, you would get run +in by a policeman. Dick said: 'Arrest of the Infant of Prague in the +Streets of Leipzig' would make just the kind of sensational headline +beloved by newspapers. I realised that he was right. It would have +distressed Helen, besides being a most unfortunate way for her to hear +first of the Infant. Helen is a great stickler for respectability." + +Aubrey Treherne's pale countenance turned a shade paler. His thin lips +curved into the semblance of a smile. + +"Ah, yes," he said, "of course. Helen is a great stickler for +respectability. Well? So you gave up undressing your Infant in the +street?" + +Again Ronnie's eager face took on a look of perplexity. + +"I did not propose undressing it," he said. + +"I only wanted to take it out of its bag." + +"I see. Quite a simple matter. Well? Owing to our absurd police +regulations you were prevented from doing this. What happened next?" + +"Dick suggested that we should go to his rooms. Arrived there he ceased +to take any interest in my 'cello, clapped me into a chair, and stuck a +beastly thermometer into my mouth." + +"Doctors are such enthusiasts," murmured Aubrey Treherne. "They can +never let their own particular trade alone. I suppose he also felt your +pulse and looked at your tongue." + +"Rather! Then he said I had no business to be walking about with a +temperature of 103. I was so much annoyed that I promptly smashed the +thermometer, and we had a fine chase after the quicksilver. You never +saw anything like it! It ran like a rabbit, in and out of the nooks and +corners of the chair, until at last it disappeared through a crack in +the floor; went to ground, you know. Doesn't Helen look well on +horseback?" + +"Charming. I suppose you easily convinced your friend that his diagnosis +was rubbish?" + +"Of course I did. I told him I had never felt better in my life. But I +drank the stuff he gave me, simply to save further bother; also another +dose which he brought to the hotel. Then he insisted on leaving a bottle +out of which I am to take a dose every three hours on the journey home. +I did not know old Dick was such a crank." + +"Probably it is the result of sitting in a tub and being scrubbed with a +dish-cloth. Did he know you were coming here?" + +"Yes; he picked up my pocket-book, found your address, and made a note +of it. He said he should probably look us up at about ten o'clock this +evening. I told him I might be here pretty late. I did not know you were +going to be so kind as to fetch my things from the hotel and put me up. +You really are most--" + +"Delighted, my dear fellow. Honoured!" said Aubrey Treherne. "Now tell +me about the finding of the 'cello." + +"I interviewed the publishers, and I hope it is all right. But they +seemed rather hurried and vague, and anxious to get me off the premises. +No doubt I shall fare better in courteous little Holland. Then I went on +to Zimmermann's to choose Helen's organ. I found exactly what she +wanted, and at the price she wished. On my way downstairs I found myself +in a large room full of violoncellos--dozens of them. They were hanging +in glass cases; they were ranged along the top. Then I suddenly felt +impelled to look to the top of the highest cabinet, and there I saw the +Infant! I knew instantly that that was the 'cello I _must_ have. It +seemed mine already. It seemed as if it always had been mine. I asked to +be shown some violoncellos. They produced two or three, in which I took +no interest. Then I said: 'Get down that dark brown one, third from the +end.' They lifted it down, and, from the moment I touched it, I knew it +must be mine! They told me it was made at Prague, a hundred and fifty +years ago, and its price was three thousand marks. Luckily, I had my +cheque-book in my pocket, also my card, Helen's card, my publisher's +letter of introduction to the firm here, and my own letter of credit +from my bankers. So they expressed themselves willing to take my cheque. +I wrote it then and there, and marched out with the Infant. I first +called it the Infant on the stairs, as we were leaving Zimmermann's, +because I almost bumped its head! Isn't it a beauty?" + +"Undoubtedly it is." + +"They put on a new set of the very best strings," continued Ronnie; +"supplied me with a good bow, and threw in a cake of rosin." + +"What did you pay for the organ?" inquired Aubrey Treherne. + +"Twenty-four pounds. Helen would not have a more expensive one. She is +always telling me not to be extravagant." + +"That, my dear boy, invariably happens to an impecunious fellow who +marries a rich wife." + +Ronnie flushed. "I am impecunious no longer," he said. "During the past +twelve months I have made, by my books, a larger income than my wife's." + +"I can well believe it," said Aubrey, cordially. "But I suppose she can +never forget the fact that, when you married her, she paid your debts." + +Ronald West sprang to his feet. + +"Confound you!" he said, violently. "What do you mean? Helen never paid +my debts! She found them out, I admit; but I paid them every one myself, +with the first cheque I received from my publishers. I demand an +explanation of your statement." + +The other two members of the trio round the stove appeared completely +unmoved by the fury of the young man who had leapt to his feet. The +Infant of Prague leaned calmly against its chair, reflecting the fire in +its polished surface, and pressing its one sharp foot into the parquet. +Aubrey smiled, deprecatingly, and waved Ronnie back to his seat. + +"My dear fellow, I am sure I beg your pardon. My cousin certainly gave +her family to understand that she had paid your debts. No doubt this was +not the case. We all know that women are somewhat given to exaggeration +and inaccuracy. Think no more of it." + +Ronnie sat down moodily in his chair. + +"It was unlike Helen," he said, "and it was a lie. I shall find out with +whom it originated. But you are a good fellow to take my word about it +at once. I am obliged to you, Treherne." + +"Don't mention it, West. Men rarely lie to one another. On the other +hand women rarely speak the truth. What will my good cousin say to one +hundred and fifty pounds being paid for a 'cello?" + +"It will be no business of hers," said Ronnie, angrily. "I can do as I +choose with my own earnings." + +"I doubt it," smiled Aubrey Treherne. + +"The man who married my cousin Helen, was bound to surrender his +independence and creep under her thumb. I am grateful to you for having +saved me from that fate. As no doubt she has told you, she refused me +shortly before she accepted you." + +Ronald's start of surprise proved at once to Aubrey his complete +ignorance of the whole matter. + +"I had no idea you were ever in love with my wife," he said. + +"Nor was I, my dear fellow," sneered Aubrey Treherne. "Others, besides +yourself, were after your wife's money." + +A sense of impotence seized Ronald, in nightmare grip. Indignant and +furious, he yet felt absolutely unable to contradict or to explain. + +Suddenly he seemed to hear Helen's voice saying earnestly: "My cousin +Aubrey is not a good man, Ronnie; he is not a man you should trust." + +This vivid remembrance of Helen, brought him to his senses. + +"I prefer not to discuss my wife," he said, with quiet dignity; "nor my +relations with her. Let us talk of something else." + +"By all means, my dear fellow," replied Aubrey. "You must pardon the +indiscretion of cousinly interest. Tell me of your new book. Have you +settled upon a title?" + +But the instinct of authorship now shielded Ronnie. + +"I never talk of my books, excepting to Helen, until they are finished," +he said. + +"Quite right," agreed Aubrey, cordially. "But you might tell me why this +one took you to Central Africa. Is it a book of travels?" + +"No; it is a love-story. But the scene is laid in wild places--ah, such +places! One cannot possibly understand, until one gets there and does +it, what it is like to leave civilisation behind, and crawl into long +grass thirteen feet high!" + +"It sounds weirdly fascinating," remarked Aubrey. "So unusual a setting, +must mean a remarkable plot." + +"It is the strongest thing I have done yet," said Ronnie, with +enthusiasm. + +Aubrey smiled, surveying Ronnie's eager face with slow enjoyment. He was +mentally recalling phrases from reviews he had written for various +literary columns, on Ronnie's work. Already he began wording the terse +sentences in which he would point out the feebleness and lack of +literary merit, in "the strongest thing" Ronnie had done yet. It might +be well to know something more about it. + +"It will be very unlike your other books," he suggested. + +"Yes," explained Ronnie, expanding. "You see they were all absolutely +English; just of our own set, and our own surroundings. I wanted +something new. I couldn't go on letting my hero make love in an English +garden." + +"If you wanted a variety," suggested Aubrey Treherne, "you might have +let him make love in another man's garden. Stolen fruits are sweet! +There is always a fascination about trespassing." + +"No, thank you," said Ronnie. "That would be Paradise Lost." + +"Or Paradise Regained," murmured Aubrey. + +"I think not. Besides--Helen reads my books." + +"Oh, I see," sneered Aubrey. "So your wife draws the line?" + +"I don't know what you mean," replied Ronnie. "Falsehood, frailty, and +infidelity, do not appeal to me as subjects for romance. But, if they +did, I certainly should not feel free to put a line into one of my books +which I should be ashamed to see my own wife reading." + +"Oh, safe and excellent standard!" mocked Aubrey Treherne. "No wonder +you go down with the British public." + +"I think, if you don't mind," said Ronald, with some heat, "we will +cease to discuss my books and my public." + +"Then there is but one subject left to us," smiled Aubrey--"the Infant +of Prague! Let us concentrate our attention upon this entirely +congenial topic. I wonder how long this dear child has remained dumb. I +have seen many fine instruments in my time, West, but I am inclined to +think your 'cello is the finest I have yet come across. Do you mind if I +tune it, and try the strings?" + +Ronnie's pleasure and enthusiasm were easily rekindled. + +"Do," he said. "I am grateful. I do not even know the required notes." + +Aubrey, leaning forward, carefully lifted the instrument, resting it +against his knees. He took a tuning-fork from his pocket. + +"It is tuned in fifths," he said. "The open strings are A, D, G, C. You +can remember them, because they stand for 'Allowable Delights Grow +Commonplace'; or, read the other way up: 'Courage Gains Desired Aims.'" + +With practised skill he rapidly tightened the four strings into harmony; +then, after carefully rosining the bow, rasped it with uncertain touch +across them. The Infant squealed, as if in dire pain. Ronnie winced, +obviously restraining himself with an effort from snatching his +precious 'cello out of Aubrey's hands. + +It did not strike him as peculiar that a man who played the violin with +ease, should not be able to draw a clear tone from the open strings of a +'cello. + +"I don't seem to make much of it," said Aubrey. "The 'cello is a +difficult instrument to play, and requires long practice." And again he +rasped the bow across the strings. + +The Infant's wail of anguish gained in volume. + +Ronnie sprang up, holding out eager hands. "Let _me_ try," he said. "It +must be able to make a better sound than that!" + +As he placed the 'cello between his knees, a look of rapt content came +into his face. He slipped his left hand up and down the neck, letting +his fingers glide gently along the strings. + +Aubrey watched him narrowly. + +Ronnie lifted the bow; then he paused. A sudden remembrance seemed to +arrest the action in mid-air. + +He laid his left hand firmly on the shoulder of the Infant, out of reach +of the tempting strings. + +"I am not going to play," he said. "The very first time I really play, +must be in the studio, and Helen must be there. But I will just sound +the open strings." + +He looked down upon the 'cello and waited, the light of expectation +brightening in his face. + +Aubrey Treherne noted the remarkable correctness of the position he had +unconsciously assumed. + +Then Ronnie, raising the bow, drew it, with unfaltering touch, across +the silver depths of lower C. + +A rich, full note, rising, falling, vibrating, filled the room. The +Infant of Prague was singing. A master-hand had waked its voice once +more. + +Ronnie's head swam. A hot mist was before his eyes. His breath came in +short sobs. He had completely forgotten the sardonic face of his wife's +cousin, in the chair opposite. + +Then the hot mist cleared. He raised the bow once more, and drew it +across G. + +G merged into D without a pause. Then, with a strong triumphant sweep, +he sounded A. + +The four open strings of the 'cello had given forth their full sweetness +and power. + +"Helen, oh, Helen!" said Ronnie. + +Then he looked up, and saw Aubrey Treherne. + +He laughed, rather unsteadily. "I thought I was at home," he said. "For +the moment it seemed as if I must be at home. I was experiencing the +purest joy I have known since I left Helen. What do you think of my +'cello, man? Isn't it wonderful?" + +"It is very wonderful," said Aubrey Treherne. "Your Infant is all you +hoped. The tone is perfect. But what is still more wonderful is that +you--who believe yourself never to have handled a 'cello before--can set +the strings vibrating with such unerring skill; such complete mastery. +Of course, to me, the mystery is no mystery. The reason of it all is +perfectly clear." + +"What is the reason of it all?" inquired Ronnie, eagerly. + +"In a former existence, dear boy," said Aubrey Treherne, slowly, "you +were a great master of the 'cello. Probably the Infant of Prague was +your favourite instrument. It called to you from its high place in the +'cello room at Zimmermann's, as it has been calling to you for years; +only, at last, it made you hear. It was your own, and you knew it. You +would have bought it, had its price been a thousand pounds. You could +not have left the place without the Infant in your possession." + +Ronald's feverish flush deepened. His eyes grew more burningly bright. + +"What an extraordinary idea!" he said. "I don't think Helen would like +it, and I am perfectly certain Helen would not believe it." + +"You cannot refuse to believe a truth because it does not happen to +appeal to your wife," said Aubrey. "Grasp it clearly yourself; then +educate her up to a proper understanding of the matter. All of us who +are worth anything in this world have lived before--not once, nor twice, +but many times. We bring the varied experiences of all previous +existences, unconsciously to bear upon and to enrich this one. Have you +not often heard the expression 'A born musician'? What do we mean by +that? Why, a man born with a knowledge, a sense, an experience, of +music, who does not require to go through the mill of learning all the +rudiments before music can express itself through him, because the soul +of music is in him. He plays by instinct--some folk call it inspiration. +Technical, skill he may have to acquire--his fingers are new to it. The +understanding of notation he may have to master again--the brain he uses +_consciously_ is also of fresh construction. But the sub-conscious self, +the _Ego_ of the man, the real eternal soul of him, leaps back with joy +to the thing he has done perfectly before. He is a born musician; just +as John the Baptist was a born prophet, because, into the little body +prepared by Zacharias and Elisabeth, came the great _Ego_ of Elijah +reincarnate; to reappear as a full-grown prophet on the banks of the +Jordan--the very spot from which he had been caught away, his life-work +only half-accomplished, nine centuries before. Even our good Helen, if +she knows her Bible, could hardly question this, remembering Whom it was +Who said: 'If ye will receive it, this _is_ Elijah which was for to +come; and they knew him not, but have done unto him whatsoever they +listed.'" + +"Great Scott!" exclaimed Ronnie. "What a theory! But indeed Helen would +question it; and not only so, but she would be exceedingly upset and +very much annoyed." + +"Then Helen would fully justify the 'If' of the greatest of all +teachers. She would come under the heading of those who refuse to +receive a truth, however clearly and unmistakably expressed." + +"Lor!" exclaimed Ronnie, in undisguised perplexity. "You have +completely cornered me. But then I never set up for being a theologian." + +"No; you are a born artist and musician. Music, tone, sound, colour, +vibrate in every page of your romances. Had your parents taught you +harmony, the piano, and the fiddle, your music would have burst forth +along its normal lines. As they merely taught you the alphabet and +grammar, your creative faculty turned to literature; you wrote romances +full of music, instead of composing music full of romance. It is a +distinction without a difference. But, now that you have found your +mislaid 'cello, and I am teaching you to KNOW YOURSELF, you will do +both." + +Ronald stared across at Aubrey. His head was throbbing. Every moment he +seemed to become more certain that he had indeed, many times before, +held the Infant of Prague between his knees. + +But there was a weird, uncanny feeling in the room. Helen seemed to walk +in, to seat herself in the empty chair; and, leaning forward, to look +at him steadily, with her clear earnest eyes. She seemed to repeat +impressively: "Aubrey is not a good man, Ronnie. He is not a man you +should trust." + +"Well?" asked Aubrey, at last. "Do you recognise the truth?" + +Then, with an effort, Ronnie answered as he believed Helen would have +answered; and her face beside him seemed to smile approval. + +"It sounds a plausible theory," he said slowly; "it may possibly be a +truth. But it is not a truth required by us now. Our obvious duty in the +present is to live this life out to its fullest and best, regarding it +as a time of preparation for the next." + +Aubrey's thin lips framed the word "Rubbish!" but, checking it +unuttered, substituted: "Quite right. This existence _is_ a preparation +for the next; just as that which preceded was a preparation for this." + +Then Ronnie ceased to express Helen, and gave vent to an idea of his +own. + +"It would make a jolly old muddle of all our relationships," he said. + +"Not at all," replied Aubrey. "It merely readjusts them, compensating +for disappointments in the present, by granting us the assurance of past +possessions, and the expectation of future enjoyment. In the life which +preceded this, Helen was probably _my_ wife, while _you_ were a +beautiful old person in diamond shoe-buckles, knee-breeches, and old +lace, who played the 'cello at our wedding." + +"Confound you!" cried Ronnie, in sudden fury, springing up and swinging +the 'cello above his head, as if about to bring it down, with a crashing +blow, upon Aubrey. "Damned old shoe-buckle yourself! Helen was never +your wife! More likely you blacked her boots and mine!" + +"Oh, hush!" smiled Aubrey, in contemptuous amusement. "Excellent young +men who make innocent love in rose-gardens, never say 'damn.' And in +those days, dear boy, we did not use shoe-blacking. Pray calm yourself, +and sit down. You are upsetting the internal arrangements of your +Infant. If you swing a baby violently about, it makes it sick. Any old +Gamp will tell you that." + +Ronnie sat down; but solely because his knees suddenly gave way beneath +him. The floor on which he was standing seemed to become deep sand. + +"Keep calm," sneered Aubrey Treherne. "Perhaps you would like to know my +excellent warrant for concluding that Helen was my wife in a former +life? She came very near to being my wife in this. She was engaged to me +before she ever met you, my boy. Had it not been for the interference of +that strong-minded shrew, Mrs. Dalmain, she would have married me. I had +kissed my cousin Helen, as much as I pleased, before you had ever +touched her hand." + +The incandescent lights grew blood-red, leaping up and down, in wild, +bewildering frolic. + +Then they steadied suddenly. Helen's calm, lovely figure, in a shaft of +sunlight, reappeared in the empty chair. + +Ronnie handed the Infant to her; rose, staggered across the intervening +space, and struck Aubrey Treherne a violent blow on the mouth. + +Aubrey gripped his arms, and for a moment the two men glared at one +another. + +Then Ronnie's knees gave way again; his feet sank deeply into the sand; +and Aubrey, forcing him violently backward, pinned him down in his +chair. + +"I would kill you for this," he whispered, his face very close to +Ronnie's; blood streaming from his lip. "I would kill you for this, you +clown! But I mean to kiss Helen again; and life, while it holds that +prospect, is too sweet to risk losing for the mere pleasure of wiping +you out. Otherwise, I would kill you now, with my two hands." + +Then a black pulsating curtain rolled, in impenetrable folds, +between Ronnie and that livid bleeding face, and he sank +away--down--down--down--into silent depths of darkness and of solitude. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +AUBREY PUTS DOWN HIS FOOT + + +Ronnie's first sensation as he returned to consciousness, was of extreme +lassitude and exhaustion. + +His eyelids lifted heavily; he had some difficulty in realising where he +was. + +Then he saw his 'cello, leaning against a chair; and, a moment later, +Aubrey Treherne, lying back in the seat opposite, enveloped in a cloud +of tobacco smoke. + +"Hullo, West!" said Aubrey, kindly. "You put in your half-hour quite +unexpectedly. You were trying, in a sleepy fashion, to tell me how you +came to purchase this fine 'cello; but you dropped off, with the tale +unfinished." + +Ronnie looked in silence at his wife's cousin. + +"Are you the better for your sleep?" + +"I am fagged out," said Ronnie, wearily. + +Aubrey went to a cupboard, poured something into a glass, and handed it +to Ronald. + +"Drink this, my boy. It will soon wake you up." + +Ronnie drank it. Its tint was golden, its odour, fragrant; but +otherwise, for aught he knew, it might have been pure water. + +He sat up and took careful note of his surroundings. + +Then an idea seemed to strike him. He leaned forward and twanged the +strings of his 'cello. They were not in tune. + +"Will you lend me your tuning-fork?" he said to Aubrey. + +But Aubrey had expected this. + +"Sorry," he said. "I don't possess one, just now. I gave away mine last +week. You can tune your 'cello by the organ." + +"I don't know how to tune a 'cello," said Ronnie. + +"Let me show you," suggested Aubrey, with the utmost friendliness. + +He walked over to the organ, drew out the 'cello stop, sounded a note, +then came back humming it. + +Then he took up the Infant and carefully tuned the four strings, talking +easily meanwhile. + +"You see? You screw up the pegs--so. The notes are A, D, G, C." + +"What have you done to your lip?" said Ronald, suddenly. + +"Knocked it on the stove just now, as I bent to stoke it with my +fingers, for fear of waking you. It bled amazingly." + +Aubrey produced a much-stained handkerchief. + +"It is curious how a tiny knock will sometimes draw as much blood as a +sword-thrust. There! The Infant is in perfect tune, so far as I can tell +without the bow. Do you mind if I just pass the bow across the strings? +After each string is perfectly tuned to a piano or organ, you must make +them vibrate together in order to get the fifths perfect. A violin or a +'cello is capable of a more complete condition of intuneness--if I may +coin a word--than an organ or a piano." + +He took up the bow, then with careful precision sounded the strings, +singly and together. The beautiful open notes of the Infant of Prague, +filled the room. + +"There," said Aubrey, putting it back against the empty chair. "I am +afraid that is all I must attempt. I only play the fiddle. I might +disappoint you in your Infant if I did more than sound the open +strings." + +Ronald passed his hand over his forehead. "When did I fall asleep?" he +asked. + +"Just after suggesting that we should not discuss your books or your +public." + +"Ah, I remember! Treherne, I have had the most vivid and horrid +nightmares." + +"Then forget them," put in Aubrey, quickly. "Never recount a nightmare, +when it is over. You suffer all its horrors again, in the telling. Turn +your thoughts to something pleasant. When do you reach England?" + +"I cross by the Hook, the day after to-morrow, reaching London early the +following morning. I shall go to my club, see my publisher, lunch in +town, and get down home to tea." + +"To the moated Grange?" inquired Aubrey. + +"Yes, to the Grange. Helen will await me there. But why do you call it +'moated'? We do not boast a moat." + +Aubrey laughed. "I suppose my thoughts had run to 'Mariana.' You +remember? 'He cometh not,' she said; the young woman who grew tired of +waiting. They do, sometimes, you know! I believe _her_ grange was +moated. All granges should be moated; just as all old manors should be +haunted. What a jolly time you and Helen must have in that lovely old +place. I knew it well as a boy." + +"You must come and stay with us," said Ronnie, with an effort. + +"Thanks, dear chap. Delighted. Has Helen kept well during your absence?" + +"Quite well. She wrote as often as she could, but there was a beastly +long time when I could get no letters. Hullo!--I say!" + +Ronnie stood up suddenly, the light of remembrance on his thin face, and +began plunging his hands into the many pockets of his Norfolk coat. + +"I found a letter from Helen at the _Poste Restante_, here; but owing to +my absorption in the Infant, I clean forgot to read it! Heaven send I +haven't dropped it anywhere!" + +He stood with his back to the stove, hunting vaguely, but feverishly, in +all his pockets. + +Aubrey smoked on, watching him without stirring. + +Aubrey was wishing that Helen could know how long her letter had +remained unread, owing to the Infant of Prague. + +At length Ronnie found the letter--a large, square foreign +envelope--safely stowed away in his pocket-book, in the inner +breast-pocket of his coat. + +"Of course," he said. "I remember. I put it there when I was writing +Zimmermann's cheque. You will excuse me if I read it straight away? +There may be something requiring a wire." + +"Naturally, my dear fellow; read it. Cousins need not stand on ceremony; +and the Infant now being thoroughly in tune, your mind is free to spare +a thought or two to Helen. Don't delay another moment. There may be a +message in the letter for me." + +Ronnie drew the thin sheets from the envelope in feverish haste. + +As he did so, a folded note fell from among them unseen by Ronnie, and +dropped to the floor close to Aubrey's foot. + +Ronnie began reading; but black spots danced before his eyes, and +Helen's beautiful clear writing zig-zagged up and down the page. + +Presently his vision cleared a little and he read more easily. + +Suddenly he laughed, a short, rather mirthless, laugh. + +"What's up?" inquired Aubrey Treherne. + +"Oh, nothing much; only I suppose I'm in for a lecture again! Helen +says: 'Ronald'--" Ronnie lifted his eyes from the paper. "What a +nuisance it is to own that kind of name. As a small boy I was always +'Ronnie' when people were pleased, and 'Ronald' if I was in for a +wigging. The feeling of it sticks to you all your life." + +"Of course it does," said Aubrey sympathetically. "Beastly hard lines. +Well? Helen says 'Ronald'--?" + +Ronnie's eyes sought the paper again; but once more the black spots +danced in a wild shower. He rubbed his eyes and went on reading. + +"'Ronald, I shall have something to tell you when you get home, which +will make a great difference to this Christmas, and to all +Christmas-times to come. I will not put it into a letter. I will wait +until you are here, and I can say it.'" + +"What can it be?" questioned Aubrey. + +"Oh, I know," said Ronnie, unsteadily--the floor was becoming soft and +sandy again. "I have heard it all before. She always thinks me +extravagant at Christmas, and objects to her old people being given +champagne and other seasonable good things. I have heard--heard it--all +before. There was no need to write about it. And when she--when she says +it, I shall jolly well tell her that a--that a--a fellow can do as he +likes with his own earnings." + +"I should," said Aubrey Treherne. + +Ronald went on reading, in silence. + +Aubrey's eye was upon the folded sheet of paper on the floor. + +Suddenly Ronnie said: "Hullo! I'm to have it after all! Listen to this. +'P.S.--On second thoughts, now you are so nearly home, I would rather +you knew what I have to say, before your return; so I am enclosing with +this a pencil note I wrote some weeks ago. _Ronnie, we will have a +Christmas-tree this Christmas_.' Well, I never!" said Ronnie. "That's +not a very wild thing in the way of extravagance, is it? But it's a +concession. I have wanted a Christmas-tree each Christmas. But Helen +said you couldn't have a Christmas-tree in a home where there were no +kids; it was absurd for two grownup people to give each other a +Christmas-tree. Now, where is--" He began searching in the empty +envelope. + +With a quick stealthy movement, Aubrey put his foot upon the note. + +"It is not here," said Ronnie, shaking out the thin sheets one by one, +and tearing open the envelope. "She has forgotten it, after all. Well--I +should think it will keep. It can hardly have been important." + +"Evidently," remarked Aubrey, "third thoughts followed second thoughts. +Even Helen would scarcely put a lecture on economy into a welcome-home +letter." + +"No, of course not," agreed Ronnie, and walked unsteadily to his chair. + +Aubrey, stooping, transferred the note from beneath his foot to his +pocket. + +Ronald read his letter through again, then turned to Aubrey. + +"Look here," he said. "I must send a wire. Helen wants to know whether I +wish her to meet me in town, or whether I would rather she waited for +me at home. What shall I say?" + +Aubrey Treherne rose. "Think it over," he said, "while I fetch a form." + +He left the room. + +He was some time in finding that form. + +When he returned his face was livid, his hand shook. + +Ronald sat in absorbed contemplation of the Infant. + +"It appears more perfect every time one sees it," he remarked, without +looking at Aubrey. + +Aubrey handed him a form for foreign telegrams, and a fountain pen. + +"What are you going to say to--to your wife?" he asked in a low voice. + +"I don't know," said Ronnie, vaguely. "What a jolly pen! What am I to do +with this?" + +"You are to let Helen know whether she is to meet you in town, or to +wait at the Grange." + +"Ah, I remember. What do you advise, Treherne? I don't seem able to +make plans." + +"I should say most decidedly, let her wait for you at home." + +"Yes, I think so too. I shall be rushing around in town. I can get home +before tea-time. How shall I word it?" + +"Why not say: _Owing to satisfactory news in letter, prefer to meet you +quietly at home. All well._" + +Ronnie wrote this at Aubrey's dictation; then he paused. + +"What news?" he asked, perplexed at the words he himself had written. + +"Why--that Helen is quite well. Isn't that satisfactory news?" + +"Oh, of course. I see. Yes." + +"Then you might add: _Will wire train from London._" + +"But I know the train now," objected Ronnie. "I have been thinking of it +for weeks! I shall catch the 3 o'clock express." + +"Very well, then add: _Coming by 3 o'clock train. Home to tea._" + +Ronnie wrote it--a joyous smile on his lips and in his eyes. + +"It sounds so near," he said. "After seven long months--it sounds so +near!" + +"Now," said Aubrey, "give it to me. I will take it out for you. I know +an office where one can hand in wires at any hour." + +"You _are_ a good fellow," said Ronnie gratefully. + +"And now look here," continued Aubrey. "Before I go, you must turn into +bed, old chap. You need sleep more than you know. I can do a little +prescribing myself. I am going to give you a dose of sleeping stuff +which brought me merciful oblivion, after long nights of maddening +wakefulness. You will feel another man, when you wake in the morning. +But I am coming with you to the Hague. I can tend the Infant, while you +go to the publishers. I will see you safely on board at the Hook, on the +following evening, and next day you will be at home. After all those +months alone in the long grass, you don't want any more solitary +travelling. Now come to bed." + +Ronnie rose unsteadily. "Aubrey," he said, "you are a most awfully good +fellow. I shall tell Helen. She will--will--will be so--so grateful. I'm +perfectly all right, you know; but other people seem so--so busy, +and--and--so vague. You will help me to--to--to--arrest their attention. +I must take the Infant to bed." + +"Yes, yes," said Aubrey; "we will find a cosy place for the Infant. If +Helen were here she would provide a bassinet. Don't forget that joke. It +will amuse Helen. I make you a present of it. _If Helen were here she +would provide a bassinet and a pram for the Infant of Prague_." + +Ronnie laughed. "I shall tell Helen you said so." Then, carrying the +'cello, he lurched unsteadily through the doorway. The Infant's head had +a narrow escape. + + * * * * * + +Aubrey Treherne sent off the telegram. He required to alter only one +word. + +When it reached Helen, the next morning at breakfast, it read thus: +_Owing to astonishing news in letter prefer to meet you quietly at home. +All well. Coming by 3 o'clock train. Home to tea_.--_Ronald_. + +Helen suffered a sharp pang of disappointment. She had expected +something quite different. The adjective "astonishing" seemed strangely +cold and unlike Ronnie. She had thought he would say "wonderful," or +"unbelievable," or "glorious." + +But before she had finished her first cup of coffee, she had reasoned +herself back into complete content. Ronnie, in an unusual fit of +thoughtfulness, had remembered her feeling about the publicity of +telegrams. She had so often scolded him for putting "darling" and "best +of love" into messages which all had to be shouted by telephone from the +postal town, into the little village office which, being also the +village grocery store, was a favourite rendezvous at all hours of the +day for village gossips. + +It was quite unusually considerate of Ronnie to curb the glowing words +he must have longed to pour forth. The very effort of that curbing, had +reduced him to a somewhat stilted adjective. + +So Helen finished her lonely breakfast with thoughts of glad +anticipation. Ronnie's return was drawing so near. Only two more +breakfasts without him. At the third she would be pouring out his +coffee, and hearing him comment on the excellence of Blake's hot +buttered toast! + +Then, with a happy heart, she went up to the nursery. + +Yet--unconsciously--the pang remained. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +A FRIEND IN NEED + + +As Aubrey Treherne, on his way back from despatching the telegram, stood +in the general entrance hall, fumbling with the latch-key at the door of +his own flat, a tall young man in an ulster dashed up the wide stone +stairs, rapidly read the names on the various brass plates, and arrived +at Aubrey's just as his door had yielded to persuasion and was admitting +him into his own small passage. + +"Hullo," said a very British voice. "Do you happen to be Ronald West's +wife's cousin?" + +Aubrey turned in the doorway, taking stock of his interlocutor. He saw a +well-knit, youthful figure, a keen resourceful face, and a pair of +exceedingly bright brown eyes, unwavering in the steady penetration of +their regard. Already they had taken him in, from top to toe, and were +looking past him in a rapid investigation of as much of his flat as +could be seen from the doorway. + +Aubrey was caught! + +He had fully intended muffling his electric bell, and not being at home +to visitors. + +But this brisk young man, with an atmosphere about him of always being +ten minutes ahead of time, already had one of his very muddy boots +inside the door, and eagerly awaited the answer to his question; so it +was useless to reply to the latter in German, and to bang the former. + +Therefore: "I have that honour," replied Aubrey, with the best grace he +could muster. + +"Ah! Well, I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I must have a word with +you; and then I am going round to spend the night with Ronnie at his +hotel." + +"Come in," said Aubrey, in a low voice; "but we must not talk in the +passage or we shall wake him. I saw he was not fit to be alone, so I +sent to the hotel for his traps, and am putting him up here. He turned +in, half an hour ago, and seemed really inclined to sleep. He was almost +off, when I left him." + +Aubrey, closing the door, led the way to his sitting-room, where the +three easy chairs were still drawn up before the stove. + +"I conclude you are Dr. Cameron," said Aubrey, turning up the light, and +motioning his visitor to the chair which had lately been Ronnie's. + +"Yes, I am Dick Cameron, Ronnie's particular chum; and if ever he needed +a particular chum, poor old chap, he does so at this moment. But I am +glad he has found a friend in you, and one really able to undertake him. +You did right not to leave him at the hotel; and he must not travel back +to England alone." + +"I have already arranged to accompany him," said Aubrey Treherne. + +"Good; it will save me a journey." + +Dick pulled off his ulster, threw it across the red velvet sofa, flung +his cap after it, and took the proffered chair. + +In his blue serge suit and gay tie, he looked like the captain of a +college football team. + +Aubrey, eyeing him with considerable reserve and distaste, silently took +up his position in the chair opposite. He felt many years older than +this peremptory young man, who appeared to consider himself master of +all situations. + +Dick turned his bright eyes on to the empty chair between them. + +"So Ronnie has spent the evening with you?" + +"He has." + +"Who was the third party?" + +"The third party was the Infant of Prague." + +"Oh, bother that rotten Infant!" exclaimed Dr. Dick. "I came near to +putting my foot through its shining tummy this morning! Still it may +serve its silly use, if it takes his mind off his book, until we can get +him safely home. I suppose you know, sir, that Ronald West is about as +ill as a man can be? It will be touch and go whether we can get him home +before the crash comes." + +"I thought he seemed excited and unwell," said Aubrey. "What do you +consider is the cause of his condition?" + +"Well, the bother is, we can't exactly tell. But I should say he has +been letting himself in for constant exposure to extreme heat by day, +and to swampy dampness by night; not taking proper food; living in a +whirl of excited imagination with no rational companionship to form an +outlet; and, on the top of all this, contracted some malarial germ, +which has put up his temperature and destroyed the power of natural +sleep. This condition of brain has enabled him to work practically night +and day at his manuscript, and I have no doubt he has written brilliant +stuff, which an enchanted world will read by-and-by, with no notion of +the price which has been paid for their pleasure and edification. But +meanwhile, unless proper steps are taken to avert disaster, our friend +Ronnie will be, by then, unable to understand or to enjoy his triumph." + +Aubrey's lean face flushed. "I hope you are taking an exaggerated view," +he said. + +"I hope you understand," retorted Dr. Dick, "that I am doing nothing of +the kind. I cannot tell you precisely what course the illness will run; +the nuisance of these African jungle poisons is that we know precious +little about them. But I have known Ronnie since he and I were at school +together, and any poison goes straight to his brain. If he gets +influenza, he never sneezes and snuffles like an ordinary mortal, but +walks about, more or less light-headed, all day; and lies dry awake, +staring at the ceiling all night." + +"What do you recommend in this case?" + +"Ah, there we arrive at my reason for coming to you. _I_ don't know +Ronnie's wife. I conclude _you_ do." + +"She is my first cousin. I have known her intimately all her life." + +"Can you write to her to-night, and mail the letter so that it will +reach her before he arrives home?" + +"I have every intention of doing so." + +Dick Cameron sat forward, eagerly. + +"Good! It will come better from you than from a total stranger. No +doubt I am known to her by name; but we have never chanced to meet. +Without alarming her too much, I want you to make Ronnie's condition +quite clear to her. Tell her he must be kept absolutely quiet and happy +on his return; and, with as little delay as may be, she must have the +best advice procurable." + +"Whom would you recommend?" + +"To be quite honest, I am afraid a brain specialist. But I will give you +the name of a man who has also made a special study of the conditions +caused by malarial fever, and exposure to tropical heat." + +Dick produced a note-book, wrote down a name and address, tore out the +leaf, and handed it to Aubrey. + +"There! You can't do better than that. Of course it is everything that +you are taking him right home. But, even so, let your letter get there +first. You might have difficulty in seeing Mrs. West alone, and mischief +might be done in a moment, which you would be powerless to prevent. Tell +her, that above all else, she must avoid any sort of shock for him. A +violent emotion of any kind would probably send him clean off his head." + +"I am sure you are right, there," said Aubrey. "He suddenly became +violent to-night, while we were talking about his 'cello; got up, +staggered across, and struck me on the mouth." + +Dr. Dick's keen eyes were instantly bent upon Aubrey Treherne in +perplexed scrutiny. + +Aubrey shifted uncomfortably in his seat; then rose and put fuel into +the stove. + +Still Dick sat silent. + +When Aubrey resumed his seat, Dick spoke--slowly, as if carefully +weighing every word. + +"Now that is peculiar," he said. "Ronnie's mental condition is a +perfectly amiable one, unless anything was said or done to cause him +extreme provocation. In fact, he would not be easily provoked. He is +inclined rather to take a maudlinly affectionate and friendly view of +things and people; to be very simply, almost childishly, pleased with +the last new idea. That wretched Infant of his is a case in point. I +should be glad if you would tell me, sir, what happened in this room +just before Ronnie hit out." + +"Merely a conversation about the 'cello," replied Aubrey, hurriedly. "A +perfectly simple remark of mine apparently annoyed him. But I soon +pacified him. He was obviously not responsible for his actions." + +"He was obviously in a frenzy of rage," remarked Dr. Dick, drily; "and +he caught you a good one on the mouth. Did he apologise afterwards?" + +"He fell asleep," said Aubrey, "and appeared on awaking to have +absolutely forgotten the occurrence." + +Dick got up, put his hands in his pockets, walked over to the organ, +and, bending down, examined the stops. He whistled softly to himself as +he did so. + +Aubrey, meanwhile, had the uncomfortable sensation that the whole scene +with Ronnie was being re-acted, with Dick Cameron as an interested +spectator. + +It tried Aubrey's nerves. + +"I do not wish to hurry you," he suggested presently. "But if I am to +post my letter to my cousin before midnight, the sooner I am able to +write it, the better." + +Dick turned at once and took up his ulster. + +Aubrey, relieved, came forward cordially to lend him a hand. + +"No, thank you," said Dr. Dick. "A man should always get into his coat +unaided. In so doing, he uses certain muscles which are exercised in no +other way." + +He swung himself into the heavy coat, and stood before Aubrey +Treherne--very tall, very grave, very determined. + +"You quite understand, sir, that if you were not yourself taking Ronnie +home, I should do so? And if, by any chance, you are prevented from +going, just let me know, and I can be packed and ready to start home +with him in a quarter of an hour." + +"Very good of you," said Aubrey, "but all our plans are made. We reach +the Hague to-morrow night. He requires a day there for making his +translation and publishing arrangements. So we sleep at the Hague +to-morrow, crossing by the Hook of Holland on the following evening. I +have wired to the Hôtel des Indes for a suite. I feel sure my cousin +would wish him to have the best of everything, and to be absolutely +comfortable and quiet. At the Hôtel des Indes they have an excellent +orchestra, and a particularly fine 'cellist. West will enjoy showing him +the Infant. They can compare babies! It will keep him amused and +interested all the evening." + +"Good idea," agreed Dr. Dick. "But Ronnie need not come down on his wife +for his hotel expenses! He is making a pot of money himself, now. You +will be careful to report to Mrs. West exactly what I have said of his +condition?" + +"I will write immediately. As we stay a night _en route_, and another is +taken up in crossing, my cousin should receive my letter twenty-four +hours before our arrival." + +"Impress upon her," said Dr. Dick, earnestly, "how dangerous any mental +shock might be." + +"Do you fear brain fever?" questioned Aubrey. + +Dick laughed. "Brain fever is a popular fiction," he said. "It is not a +term admitted by the faculty. If you mean meningitis--no, I trust not. +But probably temporary loss of memory, and a complete upsetting of +mental control; with a possible impairing, for a considerable time, of +his brilliant mental powers." + +"In other words, my cousin's husband is threatened with insanity." + +"Lor, no!" exclaimed Dick, with vehemence. "How easily you good people +hand a fellow-creature over to that darkest of all fates! Ronnie's +condition is brought about by temporary circumstances which are not in +the least likely to have permanent results. He has always had the +eccentricity of genius; but, since his genius has been recognised, +people have ceased to consider him eccentric. Now I must be off. But I +will see him first. Will you show me his room?" "He is asleep," +objected Aubrey. "Is it not a pity to disturb him?" + +"I doubt his being asleep," replied Dick. "But if he is, we shall not +wake him." + +He stepped into the passage, his attitude one of uncompromising +determination. + +Aubrey Treherne opened the door of Ronnie's room. It was in darkness. He +stepped back into the passage, lighted a candle, handed it to Dick +Cameron, and they entered quietly together. + +Ronnie lay on his back, sleeping heavily. His eyes were partly open, his +face flushed, his breathing rapid. One arm was flung out toward a chair +beside the bed, on which lay his pocket-book, his watch, and a small +leather miniature-case containing a portrait of Helen. This lay open +upon the watch, having evidently fallen from his fingers. A candle had +burned down into the socket, and spluttered itself out. + +Dick picked up the miniature, held it close to the light of his own +candle, and examined it critically. + +"He certainly went in for beauty," he remarked in a low voice to Aubrey +Treherne, as he laid the miniature beside the pocket-book. "Of course +Ronnie would. But it is also a noble face--a face one could altogether +trust. Ronnie will be in safe hands when once you get him home." + +Aubrey's smile, in the flare of the candle, was the grin of a hungry +wolf. He made no reply. + +Dr. Dick, watch in hand, stood silently beside the bed, counting the +rapid respiration of his friend. Then he turned, took up an empty +tumbler from the table behind him, smelt it, and looked at Aubrey +Treherne. + +"I thought so," he said. "You meant well, no doubt. But don't do it +again. Drugs to produce sleep may occasionally be necessary, but should +only be given under careful medical supervision. Personally, I am +inclined to think that any sort of artificial sleep does more harm to a +delicately poised brain, than insomnia. However, opinions differ. But +there is no question that your experiment of to-night must not be +repeated. I have given him stuff to take during his homeward journey +which will tend to calm him, lessen the fever, and clear his mind. See +that he takes it." + +Young Dick Cameron walked out of Ronnie's room, blew out the candle he +carried, and replaced the candlestick on a little ornamental bracket. + +Aubrey followed, inwardly fuming. + +If Dick had been at the top of the tree, the first opinion procurable +from Harley Street, W., his manner could hardly have been more +authoritative, his instructions more peremptory. + +"Upstart!" said Aubrey to himself. "Insolent Jackanapes!" + +When Dick Cameron reached the outer door his cap was on the back of his +head, his hands were thrust deep into his coat pockets. + +"Good-evening," he said. "Excuse my long intrusion. I shall be immensely +obliged if you will let me have a wire reporting your safe arrival, and +a letter, later on, with details as to Ronnie's state. I put my address +on the paper I gave you just now, with the name of the man Mrs. West +must call in." + +Dick crossed the great entrance-hall, and ran lightly down the stone +steps. + +Aubrey heard the street door close behind him. + +Then he shut and double locked his own flat. + +"Upstart!" he said. "Jackanapes! Insolent fool!" + +It is sometimes consoling to call people that which you know they are +not, yet heartily wish they were. + +Aubrey entered his sitting-room. He wanted an immediate vent for his +ill-humour and sense of impotent mortification. + +The leaf from Dick's note-book lay on the table. + +Aubrey took it up, opened the iron door of the stove, and thrust the +leaf into the very heart of the fire. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +PARADISE LOST + + +Aubrey Treherne sat at his writing-table, his head buried in his hands. + +Before him lay the closely-written sheets of his letter to Helen; beside +them her pencil note which had fallen, unnoticed by Ronnie, from her +letter to him. + +Presently Aubrey lifted his head. His face bore traces of the anguish of +soul through which he had been passing. + +A man who has yielded himself to unrestrained wrong-doing, suffers with +a sharpness of cold misery unknown to the brave true heart, however hard +or lonely may be his honourable way. + +Before finally reading his own letter to Helen, Aubrey read again her +pathetic note to her husband. + +"Ronnie, my own! + +"Excuse pencil and bad writing. Nurse has propped me up in bed, but not +so high as I should like. + +"Darling, I am not ill, only rather weak, and very, very happy. + +"Ronnie, I must write to you on this first day of being allowed a +pencil, though I shall not, of course, yet send the letter. In fact, I +daresay I shall keep it, and give it to you by-and-by. But you will like +to feel that I wrote at once. + +"Darling, how shall I tell you? Beside me, in your empty place, as I +write, lies your little son--our own baby-boy, Ronnie! + +"He came three days ago. + +"Oh, Ronnie, it is so wonderful! He is _so_ like you; though his tiny +fingers are all pink and crinkled, and his palms are like little +sea-shells. But he is going to have your artistic hands. When I cuddle +them against my neck, the awful longing and loneliness of these past +months seem wiped out. But only because he is yours, darling, and +because I know you are soon coming back to him and to me. + +"I could not tell you before you went, because I know you would have +felt obliged to give up going, and your book is so important; and I have +not told you since, because you must not have anything to worry you +while so far away. Also I was glad to bear it alone, and to save you the +hard part. One soon forgets the hardness, in the joy. + +"Jane was with me. + +"We are sending no announcement to the papers, for fear you should see +it on the way home. Very few people know. + +"Our little son will be six weeks old, when you get back. I shall be +quite strong again. + +"I hope you will be able to read this tiny writing. Nurse would only +give me one sheet of paper! + +"His eyes are blue. His little mouth is just like yours. I kiss it, but +it doesn't kiss back! He is a darling, Ronnie, but--he isn't you! + +"Come back soon, to your more than ever loving wife, + + "HELEN. + +"Yes, the smudgy places _are_ tears, but only because I am rather weak, +and so happy." + + +Crossing the first page came a short postscript, in firmer hand-writing: + + +"After all I am sending this to Leipzig. I daren't not tell you before +you arrive. I sometimes feel as if I had done something wrong! Tell me, +directly you take me in your arms, that I did right, and that you are +glad. I am down, as usual, now, and baby is quite well." + +Aubrey's hands shook as he folded the thin paper, opened a drawer, +pushed the letter far into it, and locked the drawer. + +Then, with set face, he turned to his own letter to Ronald West's wife. + + +"My own Beloved-- + +"Yes, I call you so still, because you _were_ mine, and _are_ mine. You +threw me over, giving me no chance to prove that my love for you had +made me worthy--that I would have been worthy. You sent me into outer +darkness, where there was wailing and gnashing of teeth; where the worm +of remorse dies--never. But, through it all, I loved you still. I love +you to-night, as I never loved you before. The whole world is nothing to +me, excepting as the place on which you walk. + +"I have seen the man--- the selfish, self-absorbed fool--on whom you +threw yourself away, six months after you had cast me adrift. At this +moment he is my guest, snoring in an adjoining room while I sit up +writing to you. + +"He has spent the evening talking of nothing but himself, his journey, +his wonderful book--the strongest thing he has done yet, etc., etc., +etc.; till I could have risen up and strangled him with my two hands. +Oh, Helen--my lovely one--he is altogether unworthy of you! I saw a +letter of yours long ago, in which you said he was like a young +sun-god. Handsome he is, I admit. He says he has never felt fitter in +his life, and he looks it. But surely a woman wants more than mere +vitality and vigour and outward beauty of appearance? Heart--he has +none. The wonderful news in your letter has left him unmoved. He thinks +more of a 'cello he has just bought than he does of your little son. +When I remonstrated with him, he rose up and struck me on the mouth. But +I forgave him for your sake, and he now sleeps under my roof. + +"Helen, he _must_ have disappointed you over and over again. He will +continue to disappoint you. + +"Helen, you loved me once; and when a woman loves once, she loves for +always. + +"Helen, if he could leave you alone during seven months, in order to get +local scenery for a wretched manuscript, he will leave you again, and +again, and yet again. He married you for your money; he has practically +admitted it to me; but now that he is making a yearly income larger +than your own, he has no more use for you. + +"Oh, my beloved--my queen--my only Love--don't stay with a man who is +altogether unworthy of you! If a man disappoints a woman she has a right +to leave him. He is not what she believed him to be; that fact sets her +free. If you had found out, afterwards, that he was already married to +another, would you not have left him? Well, he _was_ already wedded to +himself and to his career. He had no whole-hearted devotion to give to +you. + +"Helen, don't wait for his return. Directly you get this come out here +to me. Bring your little son and his nurse. My flat will be absolutely +at your disposal. I can sleep elsewhere; and I swear to you I will never +stay one moment after you have bid me go. As soon as West has set you +legally free, we can marry and travel abroad for a couple of years; +then, when the whole thing has blown over, go back to live in the old +house so dear to us both. + +"Helen, you will have twenty-four hours in which to get away before he +returns. But even if you decide to await his return, it will not be too +late. His utter self-absorption must give you a final disillusion. + +"See if his first words to you are not about his cursèd 'cello, rather +than about his child and yours. + +"If so, treat him with the silent contempt he deserves, and come at once +to the man who won you first and to whom you have always belonged; come, +where tenderest consideration and the worship of a lifetime await you. + +"Yours till death--- and after, + + "AUBREY TREHERNE." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE PINNACLE OF THE TEMPLE + + +Aubrey's letter fell upon Helen as a crushing, stunning blow. + +At first her womanhood reeled beneath it. + +"What have I been--what have I done," she cried, "that a man dares to +write thus to me?" + +Then her wifehood rose up in arms as she thought of Ronnie's gay, boyish +trust in her; their happy life together; his joyous love and laughter. + +She clenched her hands. + +"I could _kill_ Aubrey Treherne!" she said. + +Then her motherhood arose; and bowing her proud head, she burst into a +passion of tears. + +At length she stood up and walked over to the window. + +"It will be bad for my little son if I weep," she said, and smiled +through her tears. + +The trees were leafless, the garden beds empty. The park looked sodden, +dank and cheerless. Summer was long dead and over, yet frosts had not +begun, bringing suggestions of mistletoe and holly. + +But the mists were lifting, fading in white wreaths from off the grass; +and, at that moment, the wintry sun, bursting through the November +clouds, shone on the diamond panes, illumining the cross and the motto +beneath it. + +"_In hoc vince!_" murmured Helen. "As I told my own dear boy, the path +of clear shining is the way to victory. _In hoc signo vinces!_ I will +take this gleam of sunlight as a token of triumph. By the help of God, I +will write such an answer to Aubrey as shall lead him to overcome his +evil desires, and bring his dark soul out into the light of repentance +and confession." + +The same post had brought her a short letter from Ronnie, written +immediately on his arrival at Leipzig, evidently before receiving hers. +It was a disappointment to have nothing more. As Aubrey had got a letter +through after hearing the news, Ronnie might have done the same. + +But perhaps, face to face with her wonderful tidings, words had +altogether failed him. He feared to spoil all he would so soon be able +to say, by attempting to write. + +To-morrow--the day which should bring him to her--would soon be here. + +Meanwhile her reply to Aubrey must be posted to-day, and his letter +consigned to the flames. + +Feeling unable to go to the nursery with that letter unanswered, she sat +down at once and wrote to her cousin. + + +"I only read your letter, Aubrey, half an hour ago. I am answering it at +once, because I cannot enter the presence of my little son, with such a +letter as yours still in my possession. As soon as I have answered it I +shall burn it. + +"I may then be able to rise above the terrible sense of shame which +completely overwhelmed me at first, at the thought that any man--above +all a man who knew me well--should dare to write me such a letter! + +"At first my whole soul cried out in horror: 'What am I? What have I +been? What have I done--that such words should be written--such a +proposition made--to me?' The sin of it seemed to soil me; the burning +wickedness, to brand me. I seemed parted from my husband and my child, +and dragged down with you into your abyss of outer darkness. + +"Then, into my despair, sacred words were whispered for my comfort. 'He +was in all points tempted, like as we are, _yet without sin_,' and, +through my shame and tears, I saw a vision of the Holy One, standing +serene and kingly on the pinnacle of the temple, where, though the devil +dared to whisper the fiendish suggestion: 'Cast Thyself down,' He stood +His ground without a tremor--tempted, yet unsoiled. + +"So--with this vision of my Lord before me--I take my stand, Aubrey +Treherne, upon the very summit of the holy temple of wifehood and +motherhood, and I say to you: 'Get thee gone, Satan!' You may have bowed +my mind to the very dust in shame over your wicked words, but you cannot +cause my womanhood to descend one step from off its throne. + +"This being so, poor Aubrey, I feel able to forgive you the other great +wrong, and to try to find words in which to prove to you the utter +vileness of the sin, and yet to show you also the way out of your abyss +of darkness and despair, into the clear shining of repentance, +confession, and forgiveness. + +"As regards the happenings of the past, between you and me--you state +them wrongly. I did not love you, Aubrey, or I would never have sent you +away. I could have forgiven anything to an honest man, who had merely +failed and fallen. + +"But you had lived a double life; you had deceived me all along the +line. I had loved the man I thought you were--the man you had led me to +believe you were. I did not love the man I found you out to be. + +"I could not marry a man I did not love. Therefore, I sent you away. +There was no question then of giving you, or not giving you, a chance to +prove yourself worthy. I was not concerned just then with what you might +eventually prove yourself. I did not love you; therefore, I could not +wed you. Though, as a side issue, it is only fair to point out--if you +wish to stand upon your possible merits--that this letter, written four +years later, confirms my then estimate of your true character. + +"Aubrey, I cannot discuss my husband with you; nor can I bring myself to +allude to the subject of my relations with him, or his with me. + +"To defend him to you would be to degrade him in all honest eyes. + +"To enlarge upon my love for him, would be like pouring crystal water +into a stagnant polluted pool, in order to prove how pure was the +fountain from which that water flowed. Nothing could be gained by such +a proceeding. Pouring samples of its purity into the tainted waters of +the pool, would neither prove the former, nor cleanse the latter. + +"But, in order to free my own mind from the poison of your suggestions +and the shame of the fact that they were made to me, I must answer, in +the abstract, one statement in your letter. Please understand that I +answer it completely in the abstract. You have dared to apply it to my +husband and to me. I do not admit that it applies. But, even if it did, +I should not let it pass unchallenged. I break a lance with you, Aubrey +Treherne, and with all men of your way of thinking, on behalf of every +true wife and mother in Christendom! + +"You say, that if a man has disappointed his wife, she has a right to +leave him; the fact of that disappointment sets her free? + +"I say to you, in answer: when a woman loves a man enough to wed him, he +becomes to her as her life--her very self. + +"I often fail, and fall, and disappoint myself. I do not thereupon +immediately feel free to commit suicide. I face my failure, resolve to +do better, and take up my life again, as bravely as may be, on higher +lines. + +"If a woman leaves her husband she commits moral suicide. By virtue of +his union with her, he is as her own self. If disappointment and +disillusion come to her through him, she must face them as she does when +they come through herself. She must be patient, faithful, understanding, +tender; helping him, as she would help herself, to start afresh on +higher ground; once more, with a holy courage, facing life bravely. + +"This is my answer--every true woman's answer--to the subtle suggestions +of your letter. + +"I admit that often marriages turn out hopeless--impossible; mere +prisons of degradation. But that is when the sacred tie is entered into +for other than the essential reasons of a perfect love and mutual need; +or without due consideration, 'unadvisedly, lightly, wantonly,' +notwithstanding the Church's warning. Or when people have found out +their mistake in time, yet lacked the required courage to break their +engagement, as I broke off mine with you, Aubrey; thus saving you and +myself a lifetime of regret and misery. + +"Oh, cannot you see that the only real 'outer darkness' is the doing of +wrong? Disappointment, loss, loneliness, remorse--all these may be hard +to bear, but they can be borne in the light; they do not necessarily +belong to the outer darkness. + +"May I ask you, as some compensation for the pain your letter has given +me, and the terrible effort this answer has cost, to bear with me if, in +closing, I quote to you in full the final words of the first chapter of +the first epistle of St. John? I do so with my heart full of hope and +prayer for you--yes, even for you, Aubrey. Because, though _my_ words +will probably fail to influence you, God has promised that _His_ Word +shall never return unto Him void. + +"'If we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship +one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us +from all sin.... If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to +forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' + +"Oh, Aubrey, act on this! It is true. + +"Your cousin, who still hopes better things of you, and who will not +fail in thought and prayer, + + "HELEN WEST." + +Part III + + + + +CHAPTER X + +RONNIE ARRIVES IN A FOG + + +Ronnie reached Liverpool Street Station at 8 o'clock on a foggy November +morning. + +After the quiet night on the steamer, the landing in darkness at +Harwich, and the steady run up to town, alone in a first-class +compartment, he felt momentarily confused by the noise and movement +within the great city terminus. + +The brilliant lights of the station, combined with the yellow fog +rolling in from the various entrances; the onward rush of many feet, as +hundreds of busy men and eager young women poured out of suburban +trains, hurrying to the scenes which called for their energy during the +whole of the coming day; the gliding in and out of trains, the passing +to and fro of porters, wheeling heavy luggage; the clang of milk-cans, +the hoot of taxi-cabs, and, beyond it all, the distant roar of London, +awaking, and finding its way about heavily, like an angry old giant in +the fog--all seemed to Ronnie to be but another of the queer nightmares +which came to him now with exhausting frequency. + +As a rule, he found it best to wait until they passed off. So, holding +the Infant of Prague in its canvas case in one hand, and the bag +containing his manuscript in the other, he stood quite still upon the +platform, waiting for the roar to cease, the rush to pass by, the +nightmare to be over. + +Presently an Inspector who knew Ronnie walked down the platform. He +paused at once, with the ready and attentive courtesy of the London +railway official. + +"Any luggage, Mr. West?" he asked, lifting his cap. + +"No, thank you," replied Ronnie, "not to-day." + +He knew he had luggage somewhere--heaps of it. But what was the good of +hunting up luggage in a nightmare? Dream luggage was not worth +retrieving. Besides, the more passive you are, the sooner the delusion +leaves off tormenting you. + +"Have you come from the Hook, sir?" inquired the inspector. + +"Yes," said Ronnie. "Did you think I had come from the Eye?" + +He knew it was a vile pun, but it seemed exactly the sort of thing one +says in a nightmare. + +The inspector laughed, and passed on; then returned, looking rather +searchingly at Ronnie. + +Ronnie thought it well to explain further. "As a matter of fact, my +friend," he said, "I have come from Central Africa, where I have been +sitting round camp-fires, in company with asps and cockatrices, and +other interesting creatures. I am writing a book about it--the best +thing I have done yet." + +The inspector had read and enjoyed all Ronnie's books. He smiled +uneasily. Asps and cockatrices sounded queer company. + +"Won't you have a cup of coffee, sir, before going out into the fog?" +he suggested. + +"Ah--good idea!" said Ronnie; and made his way to the refreshment room. + +It was empty at this early hour, and quiet. All the people with rushing +feet and vaguely busy faces had breakfasted at a still earlier hour, in +their own cosy homes. Their wives had made their coffee. To-morrow Helen +would pour out his coffee. It seemed an almost unbelievably happy +thought. How came such rapture to be connected with coffee? + +He spent a minute or two in deciding at which of the many little marble +tables he would sit. He never remembered being offered so large or so +varied a choice at Liverpool Street Station before. You generally made a +dash for the only empty table you saw, usually close to the door. That +was like Hobson's choice--this or none! A stable of forty good steeds, +always ready and fit for travelling, but the customer must take the +horse which stood nearest to the door! + +Well, to-day he had the run of the stable. Forty good marble tables! +Which should he choose? + +The young women behind the counter watched him with interest as he +wandered about, carefully examining each table and sitting down +tentatively at several. At last he chose the most central, as being the +furthest removed from Hobson's choice; sat down, took the Infant out of +its bag, and, screwing in its pointed foot, leaned it up against another +chair at the table. + +Then he found that one of the young women had come from behind the +counter, and was standing at his elbow, patiently awaiting his pleasure. + +He ordered a cup of coffee and a roll and butter, for himself; a glass +of milk and a sponge-cake for the Infant. + +Just after these were served, before he had had time to drink the +steaming hot coffee, the friendly inspector arrived, accompanied by +another railway official. They said they had come to make sure Ronnie +had found what he wanted in the refreshment room. + +Ronnie thanked them for their civility, and showed them the Infant. + +They looked at it with surprise and interest; but nudged one another +when they noticed the glass of milk and the sponge-cake, which Ronnie +had carefully pushed across to the Infant's side of the table. + +Then they saluted, and went out. + +Left alone, Ronnie drank his coffee. + +It instantly cleared his brain of the after-effects of the sleeping +draught which Aubrey had insisted upon giving him just before the +steamer sailed the night before. His surroundings ceased to appear +dream-like. A great wave of happiness swept over him. + +Why, he was in London again! He was almost at home! If he had let Helen +meet him, she might have been sitting just opposite, at this little +marble table! + +He looked across and saw the unconscious Infant's glass of milk and +sponge-cake. He drew them hurriedly towards him. He felt suddenly +ashamed of them. It was possible to carry a joke too far in public. He +knew Helen would say: "Don't be silly, Ronnie!" + +He particularly disliked milk, and was not fond of sponge-cakes; but he +hastily drank the one and ate the other. He could think of no other way +of disposing of them. He hoped the young women who were watching him +from behind the counter, would think he enjoyed them. + +Then he called for a whisky and soda, to take out the exceedingly +beastly taste of the milk; but instantly remembered that old Dick had +said: "Touch no alcohol," so changed the order to another cup of coffee. + +This second instalment of coffee made him feel extraordinarily fit and +vigorous. + +He put the Infant back into its bag. + +The inspector returned. + +"We have found your luggage, Mr. West," he said. "If we may have your +keys we can get it out for you." + +"Ah, do!" said Ronnie. "Many thanks. Put it on a taxi. I shall leave it +at my Club. I am afraid I was rather vague about it just now; but I had +been given a sleeping draught on board, and was hardly awake when I got +out of the train. I am all right now. Thanks for your help, my good +fellow." + +The inspector looked relieved. + +Ronnie paid his bill, took up the 'cello, handed his bag to the +inspector, and marched off gaily to claim his luggage. + +He felt like conquering the world! The fog was lifting. The roar of the +city sounded more natural. He had an excellent report to make to his +publisher, heaps of "copy" to show him, and then--he was going home to +Helen. + +In the taxi he placed the Infant on the seat beside him. + +On the whole he felt glad he had told Helen not to meet him at the +station. It was so much more convenient to have plenty of room in the +taxi for his 'cello. It stood so safely on the seat beside him, in its +canvas bag. + +As they sped westward he enjoyed looking out at the fog and mud and +general wintry-aspect of London. + +He did not feel cold. Aubrey had persuaded him to buy a magnificent +fur-coat at the Hague. He had lived in it ever since, feeling gorgeous +and cosy. Aubrey's ideas of spending money suited him better than +Helen's. + +His taxi glided rapidly along the greasy Embankment. Once it skidded on +the tramlines, and Ronnie laid a steadying hand upon the 'cello. + +The grey old Thames went rolling by--mighty, resistless, perpetually +useful--right through the heart of busy London. + +Ronnie thought of the well-meaning preacher who pointed out to his +congregation, as an instance of the wonderful over-rulings of an +All-wise Providence, the fact that large rivers flowed through great +cities, and small streams through little villages! Ronnie laughed very +much at the recollection of this story, and tried to remember whether he +had ever told it to Helen. + +Arrived at his club he shaved, tubbed, changed his clothes, and, +leaving his 'cello in charge of the hall porter, sallied out with his +manuscript to call upon his publisher. + +In his portmanteau he had found Dr. Dick's bottle of stuff to take on +the journey. Aubrey had persuaded him to pack it away. He now took a +dose; then slipped the bottle into the pocket of his fur coat. + +All went well, during the rest of the morning. His publisher was neither +pre-occupied nor vague. He gave Ronnie a great reception and his full +attention. + +In the best of spirits, and looking the bronzed picture of perfect +health, Ronnie returned to his club, lunched, showed his 'cello to two +or three friends, then caught the three o'clock train to Hollymead. + +The seven months were over. All nightmares seemed to have cleared away. +He was on his way to Helen. In an hour and a half he would be with her! + +He began to wonder, eagerly, what Helen would say to the Infant. + +He felt quite sure that as soon as he got the bow in his hand, and the +'cello between his knees, the Infant would have plenty to say to Helen. + +He had kept his yearning to play, under strong control, so that she +might be there to enjoy with him the wonderful experience of those first +moments. + +As the train slowed up for Hollymead, and the signal lights of the +little wayside station appeared, Ronnie took the last dose of Dick's +physic, and threw the bottle under the seat. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE MIRAGE + + +Helen awaited in her sitting-room the return of the carriage. + +It had been a great effort to let it go to the station without her. In +fact she had ordered it to the front door, and put on her hat and coat +in readiness. + +But at the last minute it had seemed impossible to meet Ronnie on a +railway platform. + +So she sent the brougham off without her, went upstairs, put on a soft +trailing gown specially admired by Ronnie, paused at the nursery to make +sure all was quiet and ready, then came down to her sitting-room, and +tried to listen for a sound other than the beating of her own heart. + +The room looked very home-like and cosy. A fire crackled gaily on the +hearth. The winter curtains were drawn; the orange lampshades cast a +soft golden light around. + +The tea-table stood ready--cups and plates for two. The firelight shone +on the embossed brightness of the urn and teapot. + +Ronnie's favourite low chair was ready for him. + +The room seemed in every detail to whisper, "Home"; and the woman who +waited knew that the home within her heart, yearning to receive and +welcome and hold him close, after his long, long absence from her, was +more tender, more beautiful, more radiant, than outward surroundings +could possibly be made. + +No word save the one telegram had come from Ronnie since her letter to +Leipzig. But she knew he had been desperately busy; and, with the +home-coming so near, letters would have seemed to him almost impossible. + +He could not know how her woman's heart had yearned to have him say at +once: "I am glad, and you did right." + +Her nervousness increased, as the hour for the return of the carriage +drew near. + +She wished she could be sure of having time to run up again to the +nursery with final instructions to Nurse. Supposing baby woke, just as +the carriage arrived, and the first sound Ronnie heard was the hungry +wailing of his little son! + +Passing into the hall, she stood listening at the foot of the stairs. + +All was quiet on the upper landing. + +She returned to the sitting-room, and rang the bell. + +"Simpkins," she said to her butler, "listen for the carriage and be at +the door when it draws up. It may arrive at any moment now. Tell Mr. +West I am in here." + +She sat down, determined to wait calmly; took up the paper and tried to +read an article on foreign policy. It was then she discovered that her +hands were trembling. + +She laughed at herself, and felt better. + +"Oh, what will Ronnie think of me! That I, of all people, should +unexpectedly become nervous!" + +She walked over to the fireplace and saw reflected in the mirror over +the mantel-piece, a very lovely, but a very white, face. She did not +notice the loveliness, but she marked the pallor. It was not reassuring. + +She tried to put another log on to the fire, but failed to grip it +firmly with the little brass tongs, and it fell upon the rug. At that +moment she heard the sharp trot of the horses coming up the last sweep +of the park drive. + +She flung the log on to the fire with her fingers, flew to the door and +set it open; then returned to the table and stood leaning against it, +her hands behind her, gripping the edge, her eyes upon the doorway. +Ronnie would have to walk the whole length of the room to reach her. +Thus she would see him--see the love in his eyes--before her own were +hidden. + +She heard Simpkins cross the hall and open the door. + +The next moment the horses' hoofs pounded up the drive, and she heard +the crunch of the wheels coming to a standstill on the wet gravel. + +A murmur from Simpkins, then Ronnie's gay, joyous voice, as he entered +the house. + +"In the sitting-room? Oh, thanks! Yes, take my coat. No, not this. I +will put it down myself." + +Then his footstep crossing the hall. + +Then--Ronnie filled the doorway; tall, bronzed, radiant as ever! She had +forgotten how beautiful he was. And--yes--the love in his eyes was just +as she had known it would be--eager, glowing. + +She never knew how he reached her; but she let go the table and held out +her arms. In a moment he was in them, and his were flung around her. His +lips sought hers, but her face was hidden on his breast. She felt his +kisses in her hair. + +"Oh, Helen!" he said. "Helen! Why did I ever go!" + +She held him closer still, sobbing a little. + +"Darling, we both thought it right you should go. And--you didn't know." + +"No," he agreed rather vaguely, "of course I didn't know." He thought +she meant that he had not known how long the parting would seem, how +insistent would be the need of each other. "I should not have gone, if I +had known," he added, tenderly. + +"I knew you wouldn't, Ronnie. But--I was all right." + +"Of course you were all right. You know, you said we were a healthy +couple, so I suppose there was no need to worry or to expect anything +else. Was there? All the same I _did_ worry--sometimes." + +She waited for more. + +It did not come. Ronnie was kissing her hair again. + +"Were you glad when you had my letter, Ronnie?" she asked, very low. + +"Which letter, sweet? I was always glad of every letter." + +"Why, the last--the one to Leipzig." + +"Ah, of course! Yes, I was very glad. I read it in your cousin's flat. I +had just been showing him--oh, Helen! That reminds me--darling, I have +something to show you! Such a jolly treasure--such a surprise! I left +it in the hall. Would you like me to fetch it?" + +He loosed his arms and she withdrew from them, looking up into his +glowing face. + +"Yes, Ronnie," she said. "Why, certainly. Do fetch it." + +He rushed off into the hall. He fumbled eagerly with the buckles of the +canvas bag. It had never taken so long, to draw the precious Infant +forth. + +He held it up to the hall lights. He wanted to make sure that it was +really as brown and as beautiful as it had always seemed to him. + +Yes, it was as richly brown as the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw +in a bursting bur! + +He walked back into the sitting-room, carrying it proudly before him. + +Helen had just lighted the spirit-lamp beneath the swinging kettle on +the brass stand. Her face was rather white again. + +"Here it is, Helen," he said. "The most beautiful 'cello you ever saw! +It is one hundred and fifty years old. It was made at Prague. I paid a +hundred and fifty pounds for it." + +Helen looked. + +"That was a good deal to pay for a 'cello," she said, yet conscious as +she spoke that--even as Peter on the Mount--she had made the remark +chiefly because she "wist not what to say." + +"Not a bit!" said Ronnie. "A chap in the orchestra at the Hague, with a +fine 'cello of his own, told me he had never in his life handled such a +beauty. He considered it a wonderful bargain." + +"It _is_ a beauty," said Helen, pouring hot water from the urn into the +teapot, with a hand which trembled. + +Ronnie wheeled a third chair up to the low tea-table, opposite his own +particular seat, leaned his 'cello up against it, sat down, put his +elbows on his knees, and glowed at it with enthusiasm. + +"I knew you would say so, darling. Ever since I bought it, after +choosing your organ at Zimmermann's, I have been thinking of the moment +when I should show it to you; though an even greater moment is coming +for us soon, Helen." + +"Yes, Ronnie." + +"Look how the two silver strings shine in the firelight. I call it the +Infant of Prague." + +"Why the 'Infant'?" + +"Because it is a hundred and fifty years old; and because you have to be +so careful not to bump its head, when you carry it about." + +Helen put her hand to her throat. + +"I think it is a foolish name for a violoncello," she said, coldly. + +"Not at all," explained Ronnie. "It seems to me more appropriate every +day. My 'cello is the nicest infant that ever was; does what it's told, +gives no trouble, and only speaks when it's spoken to!" + +Helen bent over the kettle. It was boiling. She could hear the water +bubbling; the lid began making little tentative leaps. Without lifting +her eyes, she made the tea. + +Ronnie talked on volubly. It was so perfect to be back in his own +chair; to watch Helen making tea; and to have the Infant safely there to +show her. + +Helen did not seem quite so much interested or so enthusiastic as he had +expected. + +Suddenly he remembered Aubrey's joke. + +Helen at that moment was handing him his cup of tea. He took it, +touching her fingers with his own as he did so; a well-remembered little +sign between them, because the first time it had dawned upon Helen that +Ronnie loved her, and wanted her to know it, was on a certain occasion +when he had managed to touch her fingers with his, as she handed him a +cup of tea. + +He did so now, smiling up at her. He was so happy, that things were +becoming a little dream-like again; not a nightmare--that would be +impossible with Helen so near--but an exquisite dream; a dream too +perfectly beautiful to be true. + +"Darling," he said, "I brought the Infant home in a canvas bag. We must +have a proper case made for it. Aubrey said _you_ would probably want +to put it into a bassinet! I suppose he thought your mind would be +likely to run on bassinets. But the Infant always reminds me of the +darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur; so I intend to +have a case of polished rosewood made for it, lined with white velvet." + +Helen laughed, wildly. + +"I have not the smallest desire, Ronald, to put your 'cello into a +bassinet!" she said. + +It dawned upon Ronnie that Helen was not pleased. + +"It was a silly joke of Aubrey's. I told him so. I said I should tell +you _he_ said it, not I. Let's talk of something else." + +He turned his eyes resolutely from the 'cello, and told her of his +manuscript, of the wonderful experiences of his travels, his complete +success in finding the long grass thirteen feet high, and the weird, +wild setting his plot needed. + +Suddenly he became conscious that Helen was not listening. She sat +gazing into the fire; her expression cold and unresponsive. + +Ronnie's heart stood still. Never before had he seen that look on +Helen's face. Were his nightmares following him home? + +For the first time in his life he had a sense of inadequacy. Helen was +not pleased with him. He was not being what she wanted. + +He fell miserably silent. + +Helen continued to gaze into the fire. + +The Infant of Prague calmly reflected the golden lamplight in the +wonderful depths of its polished surface. + +Suddenly an inspiration came to Ronnie. Brightness returned to his face. + +He stood up. + +"Darling," he said, "I told you that an even greater moment was coming +for us." + +She rose also, and faced him, expectant. + +He put out his hand and lifted the Infant. + +"Helen, let's go to the studio, where I first told you I felt sure I +could play a 'cello. We will sit there in the firelight as we did on +that last evening, seven months ago, and you shall hear me make the +Infant sing, for the very first time." + +Then the young motherhood in Helen, arose and took her by the throat. + +"Ronald!" she said. "You are utterly, preposterously, altogether, +selfish! I am ashamed of you!" + +They faced each other across the table. + +Every emotion of which the human soul is capable, passed over Ronnie's +countenance--perplexity, amazement, anger, fury; grief, horror, dismay. + +She saw them come and go, and come again; then, finally, resolve into a +look of indignant misery. + +At last he spoke. + +"If that is your opinion, Helen," he said, "it is a pity I ever returned +from the African jungle. Out there I could have found a woman who would +at least have given me a welcome home." + +Then his face flamed into sudden fury. He seized the cup from which he +had been drinking, and flung up his hand above his head. His upper lip +curled back from his teeth, in an angry snarl. + +Helen gazed at him, petrified with terror. + +His eyes met hers, and he saw the horror in them. Instantly, the anger +died out of his. He lowered his hand, carefully examined the pattern on +the cup, then replaced it gently in the saucer. + +"I beg your pardon," he said. "I ought not to have said that--about +another woman. There is but _one_ woman for me; and, welcome or no +welcome, there is but one home." + +Then he turned from her, slowly, deliberately, taking his 'cello with +him. He left the room, without looking back. She heard him cross the +hall, pause as if to pick up something there; then pass down the +corridor leading to the studio. + +Listening intently, she heard the door of the studio close; not with a +bang--Ronnie had banged doors before now--but with a quiet +irrevocability which seemed to shut her out, completely and altogether. + +Sinking into the chair in which she had awaited his coming with so much +eagerness of anticipation, Helen broke into an uncontrollable paroxysm +of weeping. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +A FRIEND IN DEED + + +Precisely how long she remained alone in her sitting-room, Helen never +knew; but it cannot have been the long hours it seemed, seeing that +Simpkins did not appear to fetch the tea-tray, nor did Nurse send down +any message from the nursery. + +Helen had wept herself into the calm of exhaustion, and was trying to +decide what her next move should be, when the hoot of a motor sounded in +the park. In another moment she heard it panting at the door. Then the +bell pealed. + +With the unfailing instinct of her kind, to hide private grief and show +a brave front to the world, Helen flew to the mirror, smoothed her +tumbled hair, put away her damp handkerchief; and, standing calmly +beside the mantel-piece, one foot on the fender, awaited her unexpected +visitor. + +She heard voices in the hall, then Simpkins opened the door and tried to +make an announcement, but some unseen force from behind whirled him +away, and a broad-shouldered young man in an ulster, travel-stained and +dishevelled, appeared in his stead, shut the door upon Simpkins, and +strode into the lamplight, his cloth cap still on the back of his head, +his keen dark eyes searching Helen's face eagerly. + +His cap came off before he spoke to her; but, with his thick, +short-cropped hair standing on end, a bare head only added to the +wildness of his appearance. + +He stopped when he reached the tea-table. + +"Where's Ronnie?" he said, and he spoke as if he had been running for +many miles. + +"My husband is in the studio," replied Helen, with gentle dignity. + +"What's he doing?" + +"I believe he is playing his 'cello." + +"Oh, lor! That wretched Infant! Is he all right?" + +"So far as I know." + +"What time did he get here?" + +"At half-past four." + +The dishevelled young man glanced at the clock. + +"Oh, lor!" he said again. "To think I've travelled night and day and +raced down from town in a motor to get here first, and he beat me by an +hour and a half! However, if he's all right, no harm's done." + +He dropped into Ronnie's chair, and rumpled his hair still further with +his hands. + +"I must try to explain," he said. + +Then he lifted a rather white, very grubby face to Helen's. His lips +twitched. + +"I'm dry," he said; and dropped his face into his hands. + +Helen rang the bell. + +"Bring whisky and soda at once," she ordered, the instant Simpkins +appeared in the doorway. + +Then she crossed over, and laid her hand lightly on her visitor's broad +shoulder. + +"Don't try to explain," she said kindly, "until you have had something. +I am sure I know who you are. You appear in all sorts of cricket and +football groups in Ronnie's dressing-room. You are Ronnie's special +chum, Dick Cameron." + +Dick did not lift his head. As a matter of fact, at that moment he could +not. But, though his throat contracted, so that speech became +impossible, in his heart he was saying: "What a woman! Lor, what a +woman! Ninety-nine out of a hundred would have offered me tea--and tea +that had stood an hour; and the hundredth would have sent for a +policeman! But she jumps instantly to whisky and soda; and then walks +across and makes me feel at home. Eh, well! We shall save old Ronnie +between us." + +She administered the whisky and soda when it appeared; sitting gently +beside him, in exceeding friendliness. + +The rugged honesty of the youth appealed to her. His very griminess +seemed but an earnest of his steadfast purpose, and suited her present +mood of utter disillusion with the artistic and the beautiful. + +Dick's look of keen alertness, his sense of forceful vigour, soon +returned to him. + +He stood up, surveyed himself in the glass, then turned with a rueful +smile to Helen. + +"It was both kind and brave of you, Mrs. West," he said, "not to send +for a policeman." + +Helen laughed. "I think I know an honest man when I see him, Dr. Dick. +You must let me use the name by which I have always heard of you. Now, +can you explain more fully?" + +"Certainly," said Dick, getting out of his ulster, and sitting down. +"But I must begin by asking a few more questions. Did you get your +cousin's letter yesterday morning? It was absolutely essential you +should receive it before Ronnie reached home. I hoped you would act upon +it at once." + +Helen gazed at him, aghast. + +"I did receive my cousin's letter," she said. + +"Was it quite explicit, Mrs. West?" + +"It was absolutely explicit." + +"Ah! Then on that point I admit I have wronged him. But you must excuse +me if I say that I am inclined to consider your cousin a liar and a +scoundrel." + +Helen's face was white and stern. "I am afraid I have long known him to +be both, Dr. Dick." + +"Then you will not wonder that when I found he was not keeping his word +to me, and bringing Ronnie home, I dashed off in pursuit." + +"Was there ever any question of his returning with my husband?" + +It was Dick's turn to look perplexed. + +"Of course there was. In fact, he gave me his word in the matter. I +mistrusted him, however, and the more I thought it over, the more uneasy +I grew. Yesterday morning, the day he was to have crossed with Ronnie, I +called at his flat and found he was expected back there to-day. I should +dearly have liked to wait and wring his neck on arrival, but naturally +Ronnie's welfare came first. I could not catch the night boat at the +Hague, but I dashed off via Brussels, crossed from Boulogne this +morning, reached London forty minutes too late for the 3 o'clock train +to Hollymead. There was no other until five, and that a slow one. So I +taxied off to a man I know in town who owns several cars, borrowed his +fastest, and raced down here, forty miles an hour. Even then I got here +too late. However, no harm has been done. But you will understand that +prompt action was necessary. What on earth was your cousin's little +game?" + +"It is quite inexplicable to me," said Helen, slowly, "that you should +have any knowledge of my cousin's letter. Also, you have obviously been +prompt, but I have not the faintest idea why prompt action was +necessary." + +"Didn't your cousin give you my message?" + +"Your name was not mentioned in his letter." + +"Did he tell you of Ronnie's critical condition?" + +"He said Ronnie told him he had never felt fitter in his life, and added +that he looked it." + +Dick leapt to his feet, walked over to the window, and muffled a few +remarks about Aubrey Treherne, in the curtains. Nevertheless Helen heard +them. + +"Is--Ronnie--ill?" she asked, with trembling lips. + +Dick came back. + +"Ronnie is desperately ill, Mrs. West. But, now he is safely at home, +within easy reach of the best advice, we will soon have him all right +again. Don't you worry." + +But "worry" scarcely expressed Helen's face of agonised dismay. + +"Tell me--all," she said. + +Dick sat down and told her quite clearly and simply the text of his +message to her through Aubrey, explaining and amplifying it with full +medical details. + +"Any violent emotion, either of joy, grief or anger, would probably +have disastrous results. He apparently came to blows with your cousin +during the evening he spent at Leipzig. Ronnie gave him a lovely thing +in the way of lips. One recalls it now with exceeding satisfaction. When +I saw your cousin afterwards he appeared to have condoned it. But it may +account for his subsequent behaviour. Fortunately this sort of +thing--" Dick glanced about him appreciatively--"looks peaceful enough." + +Helen sat in stricken silence. + +"It augurs well that he was able to stand the pleasure of his +home-coming," continued Dr. Dick. "He must be extraordinarily better, if +you noticed nothing unusual. Possibly he slept during the +night-crossing. Also, I gave him some stuff to take on the way back, +intended to clear his brain and calm him generally. Did he seem to you +quite normal?" + +Then Helen rose and stood before him with clasped hands. + +"He seemed to me quite normal," she said, "because I had no idea of +anything else. But now that I know the truth, of course I realise at +once that he was not so. And, oh, Dr. Dick, I had a terrible scene with +Ronnie!" + +Dick stood up. + +"Tell me," he said. + +"I told Ronnie that he was utterly, preposterously, and altogether +selfish, and that I was ashamed of him." + +"Whew! You certainly did not mince matters," said Dr. Dick. "What had +poor old Ronnie done?" + +"He had talked, from the moment of his return, of very little save the +'cello he has brought home. He had suggested that it might amuse me to +put it into a bassinet. Then when at last tea was over, he proposed, as +the most delightful proceeding possible, that we should adjourn to the +studio, and that I should sit and listen while he made a first attempt +to play his 'cello--which, by the way, he calls, the 'Infant of Prague,' +explaining to me that it is the nicest infant that ever was." + +"Oh, that confounded Infant!" exclaimed Dr. Dick. "I have hated it from +the first! But really, Mrs. West "--he looked puzzled--"all this was no +doubt enthusiasm misplaced. But then Ronnie always is a perfect infant +himself, where new toys are concerned. You can hardly realise how much +he has looked forward to showing you that 'cello. His behaviour also +proved a decided tendency to self-absorption; but there the artistic +temperament comes in, which always creates a world of its own in which +it dwells content, often at the expense of duties and obligations +connected with outer surroundings. We all know that this is Ronnie's +principal failing. But--excuse me for saying so--it hardly deserved +quite so severe an indictment from you." + +Helen wrung her hands. + +Suddenly Dr. Dick took them both, firmly in his. + +"Why don't you tell me the truth?" he said. + +Then Helen told him. + +She never could remember afterwards exactly how she told him, and no +one but Helen ever knew what Dr. Dick said and did. But, months +later--when in her presence aspersions were being cast on Dick for his +indomitable ambition, his ruthless annihilation of all who stood in his +way, his utter lack of religious principle and orthodox belief--Helen, +her sweet face shadowed by momentary sadness, her eyes full of pathetic +remembrance, spoke up for Ronnie's chum. "He may be a bad old thing in +many ways," she said; "I admit that the language he uses is calculated +to make his great-aunt Louisa, of sacred memory, turn in her grave! +But--he is a tower of strength in one's hour of need." + + * * * * * + +"No," said Dick, after a while, gazing straight before him into the +fire, his chin in his hands; "I can't believe Ronnie knew it. He was +just in the condition to become frantically excited by such news. He +would have been desperately anxious about you; wild that you should +have gone through it alone, and altogether absorbed in the idea of +coming home and seeing his child. The Infant of Prague would have had +its shining nose put completely out of joint. I don't believe Ronnie +ever had your letter. Write to the _Poste Restante_ at Leipzig, and you +will receive it back." + +"Impossible," said Helen. "He opened and read it that evening in +Aubrey's flat. He told Aubrey the news, and Aubrey mentioned it in his +letter to me." + +Dick looked grave. + +"Well then," he said, "old Ronnie is in an even worse case than I +feared. I think we should go at once and look him up. I told my friend's +chauffeur to wait; so, if further advice is needed to-night, we can send +the car straight back to town with a message. Where is Ronnie?" + +"He took his 'cello, and went off to the studio. I heard him shut the +door." + +"Show me the way," said Dr. Dick. + +With his hand on the handle of the sitting-room door, he paused. + +"I suppose you--er--feel quite able to forgive poor old Ronnie, now?" he +asked. + +The yearning anguish in Helen's eyes made answer enough. + +They crossed the hall together; but--as they passed down the corridor +leading to the studio--they stopped simultaneously, and their eyes +sought one another in silent surprise and uncertainty. + +The deep full tones of a 'cello, reached them where they stood; tones so +rich, so plaintively sweet, so full of passion and melody, that, to the +anxious listeners in the dimly lighted corridor, they gave the sense of +something weird, something altogether uncanny in its power, unearthly in +its beauty. + +They each spoke at the same moment. + +"It cannot be Ronnie," they said. + +"It must be Ronnie," amended Helen. "There is no one else in the house." + +"_You_ go in," whispered Dick. "I will wait here. Call, if you want me. +Don't startle him. Go in very softly. Be very--er--_you_ know?" + +Helen moved forward alone. + +She laid her hand upon the handle of the studio door. + +She wished the weird music within would cease for one moment, that she +might feel more able to enter. + +Cold shivers ran down her spine. + +Try as she would, she could not connect that music with Ronnie. + +Somebody else was also in the studio, of that she felt quite certain. + +She nearly went back to Dick. + +Then--rating herself for cowardice--she turned the handle of the door +and passed in. + +Dick saw her disappear. + +Almost at that moment the 'cello-playing ceased; there was a crash, a +cry from Helen, a silence, and then--a wild shriek from Helen, a sound +holding so much of fear and of horror, that Dick shouted in reply as he +dashed forward. + +He found himself in a low room, oak-panelled, lighted only by the +uncertain flame a log-fire. The door by which Dick had centered was to +the left of the fireplace. On the wall at the farther end of the room, +opposite both door and fireplace, hung an immense mirror in a massive +gilt frame. + +On the floor in the centre of the room lay Ronnie, unconscious, on his +back. The chair upon which he had been sitting and which had gone over +backwards with him, lay broken beneath him. His 'cello rested on his +chest. He gripped it there, with both his hands. They fell away from it, +as Dick looked at him. + +Ronnie's wife knelt on the floor beside him, but she was not looking at +Ronnie. She was staring, with white face and starting eyes, into the +mirror. Her left arm, stretched out before her, was rigid with horror, +from the shoulder to the tip of the pointing finger. + +"Look, Dick!" she shrieked. "Oh, heavens! Look!" + +Dick flashed up the electric light; then looked into the mirror. + +He saw himself loom large, dishevelled, grimy, travel-stained. Then he +saw Ronnie and the Infant in a dark heap on the floor, and the white +face of Ronnie's wife, kneeling beside him with outstretched arm and +eyes upon the mirror. On the other side of Ronnie, in the very centre of +the scene, stood a queer old chair of Italian workmanship, the heads of +lions completing its curved arms, on its carved back the _fleur-de-lis_ +of Florence, its seat of padded leather, embossed in crimson and gold. + +This was all Dick saw, excepting the leaping flames of the fire beyond. + +And even as he looked, Helen's arm fell to her side; he saw her turn, +lift the Infant off Ronnie's breast; and, bending over him, draw his +head on to her lap. + +Dick turned from the mirror. The scene in the room was identical with +the reflection, in all points save one. The Florentine chair was under +Ronnie. It had fallen with him. Its back was broken. Not until he had +lifted his friend from the floor did Dr. Dick see the panelled +_fleur-de-lis_ of Florence, nor the crimson and gold of the embossed +leather seat. + +As he and Helen together loosed Ronnie's collar and tie, she whispered: +"Did--_you_--see?" + +"This is no time for staring into mirrors," said Dr. Dick, crossly. "I +saw that _I_ need a good wash; and _you_, some sal-volatile! But we +shall have plenty to do for Ronnie before we can find leisure to think +of ourselves. Send a couple of men here; sturdy fellows whom you can +trust. Order that car to the door; then bring me a pencil, a sheet of +note-paper and an envelope. There is just one man in the world who can +help us now, and we must have him here with as little delay as +possible." + +When Helen had left the room, Dick glanced furtively over his shoulder +into the mirror. + +The Italian chair, in the reflection, now lay broken on the floor! + +"Hum!" said Dr. Dick. "Not bad, that--for an Infant! Precocious, I call +it. We must have that 'cello re-christened the '_Demon_ of Prague'!" + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +RONNIE FACES THE UPAS + + +Ronnie had walked from his wife's sitting-room, along the corridor and +into the studio, in a state of stunned stupefaction. + +He carried his 'cello in one hand, its case and bow, which he had picked +up in the hall, in the other; but he had for the moment completely +forgotten the Infant. + +He leaned it against a chair, laid down the case, closed the studio +door; then walked to the fireplace. + +He stood looking at the great crackling logs, and into the glowing heart +of the fire beneath them. + +"Utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish," he repeated slowly. +"That is what my wife considers me; that is as I appear to Helen. +Utterly--preposterously--altogether--selfish. She is so lovely--she is +so perfect! I--I have longed for her so! But _I_ am utterly, +preposterously, altogether, selfish!" + +He put his arms upon the mantel-piece and dropped his head upon them. He +felt a queer contraction in his throat, a stinging beneath his eyelids, +such as he had not experienced since the days of childish mortifications +and sorrows. But the instinctive manliness of him, held back the actual +tears. He was debarred, even in solitude, from that form of relief. + +Presently he lifted his head, took out his pocket-book, and wrote down +the words, spelling each with a capital letter. + +He looked long at them; then suddenly exclaimed: "U, P, A, S! Why, it is +the Upas tree; the deadly, mysterious, poisonous Upas tree! I found it +in the jungle. I felt ill the night I camped beneath it. I have never +felt quite well since. The nightmares began on that night; and the +nightmares have followed me home. This is the worst of all. Helen calls +me the Upas tree--the poisoner of her content. Utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish!" + +He turned on the electric lights, and walked up and down the room, with +desperate, restless tread. + +"Poisoning all it touches," he said. "Blasting the life of all who pass +beneath its deadly foliage--U,P,A,S--Upas." + +He paused before the great mirror, gazing at his own reflection. + +He put his face quite close to the glass, staring into his burning eyes. + +Then he struck at the reflection with his clenched fist. "Upas tree!" he +snarled. "Take that, and be damned!" + +He had hurt his knuckles. He walked back to the fire, rubbing them +carefully with his left hand. + +"Poor old chap," he said. "It _is_ hard lines! You meant well; but all +the while you were a Upas tree. '_I, Helen, take thee, Upas, to be my +wedded husband_.' Poor lovely Helen! What a bargain!" + +He sat down in a deep basket-chair, lighted a cigarette, pushed another +chair into position, exactly in front of him, with his foot; then +filling it, one by one, with friends of his own and Helen's, held +conversation with them. + +"Quite right, my dear Mrs. Dalmain! You need not now confine yourself to +_looking_ your disapproval; you can _say_ exactly what you think. You +see, Helen herself has told me the worst truth of all. I am a Upas tree. +She sums me up thus: U, P, A, S! You can hardly beat that, Mrs. Dalmain. +In fact, you look distressed. I can see that your kind heart is sorry +for me. Helen said you were a wonderful person to turn to in trouble. +There is no one in the world quite like you. Well, now's your chance to +prove it; for surely nobody ever came to you in more desperate trouble. +If you wish to be really kind and comforting, talk to me of my wife. Say +how sweet and lovely she is. Say that her arms are tender, her eyes +gentle and kind. I am the thirsty traveller in the desert, who sights +pure water, hastens eagerly forward, and finds--a mirage! But a deadly +stream flows from the roots of the Upas--Hullo! Here comes Aubrey +Treherne. Look out, Mrs. Dalmain! He owes you a grudge. Hey, presto! +Vanish from the chair, or Helen's cousin will lean over, with a bleeding +face, threatening to kill you with both hands!... + +"Good-evening, Cousin Aubrey. How is your lip to-night? You mustn't kiss +Helen again, until that lip is well. Helen will be ashamed of you for +not being able to put fuel into a stove without knocking your lip. Fie, +man! Poor happy Ronnie, going home to show his wife his 'cello, believed +you. But the Upas tree knows! You can't deceive the Upas tree, you liar! +You may as well tell Helen that you wounded your lip on a branch of her +Upas tree.... + +"Hullo, Dick! Come in, and welcome! Sit down, old boy. I want to ask you +something. Hist! Listen! That motor, which hooted in the park a moment +ago, contained a policeman--so it is essential we should know whether +there is any by-law in Leipzig against men, as trees, walking. Because +you weren't walking about with a man, you know, but with a Upas tree. +When in doubt, ask--my wife! It would have made a sensational paragraph +in the papers: 'Arrest of a Upas tree, in the streets of Leipzig!' Worse +than 'Arrest of the Infant of Prague.' ... Why! Where is the Infant?" + +He turned and saw his 'cello, where he had placed it, leaning against a +chair. + +He rose, took it up, and walked over to the piano. + +"A, D, G, C. 'Allowable delights grow commonplace!' What did the fiend +mean? C, G, D, A. 'Courage gains desired aims.' That's better! We aimed +pretty straight at his lying mouth." + +He opened the piano, struck the notes, and tuned the 'cello exactly as +he had seen Aubrey do. + +At the first sound of the strings his mood changed. All bitterness +passed out of his face. A look of youth and hope dawned in it. + +He carried the 'cello back to the circle of chairs. He placed it where +it had stood before; then lay back in his own seat smiling dreamily at +the empty chair opposite. + +"Helen," he said, "darling, I don't really play the piano, I only strum. +But there is one instrument, above all others, which I have always +longed to play. I have it now. I own the 'cello I have always loved and +longed for; the 'cello on which I used to play a hundred years ago. Now +I am going to play to you; and you will forget everything in this world, +my wife, excepting that I love you." + +He drew the Infant between his knees; then realised at once that his +chair was too low. + +Rising, he went over to a corner where, against the wall, stood a +beautiful old chair which he and Helen had brought back, the winter +before, from Italy. Its arms and feet of walnut wood, were carved into +lions' heads and paws. Its back bore, in a medallion, the Florentine +_fleur-de-lis_. The high padded seat was of embossed gold, on crimson +leather. + +Ronnie placed this queer old chair in the centre of the room, facing the +great mirror. + +Then he clicked off the electric lights, stirred the fire, and threw on +a couple of fresh logs. + +The flames shot up, illumining the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +"AS IN A MIRROR" + + +Ronnie returned to the Florentine chair, took the 'cello between his +knees, placed his thumb behind its polished neck and his fingers on the +ebony finger-board. He let them glide lightly up and down the strings, +making no sound. Then he raised the bow in his right hand, and slowly, +softly, sounded the four open notes. + +Each tone was deep and true; there was no rasp--no uneven scraping of +the bow. + +The log-fire burned up brightly. + +He waited. A great expectation filled him. + +He was remembering something he had long forgotten. + +Looking straight before him at his own reflection in the mirror, he +smiled to see how correctly he held the 'cello. The Infant seemed at +home between his knees. + +The sight of himself and the Infant thus waiting together, gave him +peculiar pleasure. + +The fire burned low. + +His reflected figure dimmed and faded. A misty shadow hid it from his +eyes. He could just see the shining of the silver strings, and the white +line of his linen cuff. + +Then suddenly, he forgot all else save that which he had been trying to +remember. + +He felt a strong tremor in his left wrist. He was gripping the neck of +the 'cello. The strings were biting deep into the flesh of his +finger-tips. + +He raised the bow and swept it across the strings. + +Low throbbing music filled the studio, and a great delight flooded +Ronnie's soul. + +He dared not give conscious thought to that which he was doing; he could +only go on doing it. + +He knew that he--he himself--was at last playing his own 'cello. Yet it +seemed to him that he was merely listening, while another played. + +Two logs fell together in the fire behind him. + +Bright flames shot up, illumining the room. + +Ronnie raised his eyes and looked into the mirror. + +He saw therein reflected, the 'cello and the Italian chair; but the +figure of a man sat playing, and that man was not himself; that figure +was not his own. + +A grave, white face, set off by straight black hair, a heavy lock of +which fell over the low forehead; long white fingers gliding up and down +the strings, lace ruffles falling from the wrists. The knees, gripping +the 'cello, were clad in black satin breeches, black silk stockings were +on the shapely legs; while on the feet, planted firmly upon the floor, +gleamed diamond shoe-buckles. + +Ronnie gazed at this reflection. + +Each movement of the gliding bow, corresponded to the rhythm of the +music now throbbing through the studio. + +Ronnie played on, gazing into the mirror. The man in the mirror did not +lift his eyes, nor look at Ronnie. Either they were bent upon the +'cello, or he played with them fast closed. + +Ronnie dared not look down at his own hands. He could feel his fingers +moving up and down the strings, as moved the fingers in the mirror. He +feared he should see lace ruffles falling from his wrists, if he looked +at his own hands. + +The fire burned low again. + +Still Ronnie played on, staring before him as he played. The music +gained in volume and in beauty. + +The fire burned lower. The room was nearly dark. The reflection was +almost hidden. + +Ronnie, straining his eyes, could see only the white line of the low +square forehead. + +He wished the eyes would lift and look at him, piercing the darkness of +the darkening room. + +Another log fell. Again flames darted upwards. Each detail in the +mirror was clear once more. + +The playing grew more rapid. Ronnie felt his fingers flying, yet +pressing deeply as they flew. + +The right foot of the figure, placed further back than the left, was +slightly raised. The heel was off the floor. + +Ronnie's right heel was also lifted. + +Then, looking past the figure in the chair, he marked behind him, where +in the reflection of the studio should have been the door, heavy black +curtains hanging in sombre folds. And, even as Ronnie noticed these, +they parted; and the lovely face of a woman looked in. + +As Ronnie saw that face he remembered many things--things of exquisite +joy, things of poignant sorrow; things inexpressible except in music, +unutterable except in tone. + +The 'cello sobbed, and wailed, and sang itself slowly into a minor +theme; yet the passion of the minor was more subtle, sweeter far, than +the triumph of the major. + +The woman glided in. + +Ronnie watched her. She came and softly stood behind the Florentine +chair. + +Apparently she made no sound. The 'cellist did not raise his eyes. He +appeared totally unconscious of her presence. + +The woman bent her beautiful head, observing him closely. Following her +eyes, Ronnie saw a ruffle of old lace falling from the 'cellist's +throat, a broad crimson ribbon crossing his breast, on which glittered a +diamond star. + +The woman waited. + +Ronnie watched. + +The 'cellist played on. + +The fire burned low. + +Then another log fell. Again flames darted upward. + +Ronnie saw the woman lay her left hand noiselessly upon the back of the +Italian chair, then slip her right behind her and take something bright, +off a table covered with bright things. And, as he watched, she flung +her right hand high above her head, and in it, point downwards, gleamed +the sharp blade of a dagger. + +Her eyes met Ronnie's in the mirror. A gleam of malicious triumph shot +from them. + +He knew she was about to kill the unconscious 'cellist. + +His one thought was to warn and to save him. He knew no sound he made +could be heard in a past century; but whatever he himself now did, he +instinctively felt the 'cellist in the mirror would also do. + +With a desperate effort he stopped the movement of the bow. + +He had just time to see the 'cellist in the mirror also pause. + +Then Ronnie dropped his bow, gripped the 'cello with both hands, and, as +the swift blow fell, drew the body of the 'cello up over his breast. + +Then the back of his chair seemed to give way; his feet left the floor, +and he fell over backwards--down--down--down--into a never ending abyss +of throbbing, palpitating, rolling blackness. + +Part IV + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +"THE FOG LIFTS" + + +When Ronnie came to himself, emerging quite suddenly from a long, +confused dream, which had held many voices, many happenings over which +he had exercised no control and which were too indefinite to be +remembered, he found himself sitting on a seat, on the esplanade at +Hazelbeach. + +A crisp, wintry feeling was in the air; but the sun was brilliant, and +the high ground behind, sheltered the sea-front from wind. + +He was muffled in his fur coat, and felt quite warm. + +The first thing he consciously noticed was the sparkling of the ripple +on the calm water. + +There is something particularly reviving and inspiriting about sunshine +on the gaily moving sea. The effect is produced with so little apparent +effort. The sun just shines; the water just moves; and lo, hosts of +sparkling diamonds! + +Ronnie watched it in silence for some time, before giving any sign that +he actually saw it. + +He was anxious carefully to take his bearings, without appearing to do +so. + +Helen sat beside him on the seat. She kept up a flow of conversation, in +the kind, cheerful, intelligent voice in which you talk to a child who +has to be kept happy and amused. + +Ronnie let her go on talking in that voice, while he took his bearings. + +He glanced at her, furtively, once; then turned his eyes seaward again. + +Helen, also, was wearing a fur coat, and a pretty grey fur toque on her +soft hair. Her face seemed thinner than it used to be; but the sea +breeze and sunshine had brought a bright colour to her cheeks. + +Ronnie's eyes left the ripples, and wandered cautiously up and down the +shore. + +The beach was deserted. No moving figures dotted the esplanade. Helen +and he would have been alone, had it not been for one tiresome man who +sat reading on the next seat to theirs. He looked like a superior valet +or upper footman, in a bowler and a black morning coat. He was just out +of earshot; but his presence prevented Ronnie from feeling himself alone +with Helen, and increased the careful caution with which he took his +bearings. + +At last he felt the moment had arrived to stop Helen's well-meant +attempts at amusing him. + +The man on the other seat was a dozen yards off to the right. Helen sat +quite close to him on the left. He turned his back on the other seat and +looked earnestly into his wife's face. + +"Helen," he said, quietly, "how did we get here?" + +"We motored, darling. It isn't very far across country, though to get +here by train we should have to go up to town and down again." + +"When did we come?" + +"Yesterday. Ronnie, do look at those funny little wooden houses just +beyond us on the esplanade. They take the place of bathing-machines, or +bathing-tents, in summer. They can be hired just for the morning, or you +can engage one for the whole time of your visit, and furnish it +comfortably. Don't you think it is quite a good idea? And people give +them such grand names. I saw one called 'Woodstock,' and another +'Highcombe House.' If we took one, we should have to call it 'The +Grange.'" + +"Helen, you have told me all about those little huts twice already, +during the last half-hour. Only, last time you had seen one called +'Runnymead,' and another called 'The Limes.' Presently, if you like, we +will walk along and read all the names. It is just the kind of thing +which would appeal to our joint sense of humour. But first you must +answer a few more questions. Helen--where is my 'cello?" + +"At home, Ronnie." + +"Was it broken?" + +Helen looked distressed. "No, darling, it was not injured at all. It is +safely put away. Look how the sunlight sparkles on those distant +ripples!" + +"I have finished with the ripples thank you, darling. Helen, I know I've +been desperately ill. But I'm all right now, and I want you to tell me +all about it." + +He saw her glance past him, at the man who sat reading on the next seat. + +"Don't worry about him," he said. "He can't overhear. If you think he +can, let's move on." + +"No, no!" said Helen, quickly. "We are so cosy here in the sunshine. +Ronnie, do you see those--" + +"No, dear," he said, "I don't! At this moment I see nothing but you. And +I decline to have my attention drawn any more to the exciting things to +be seen on the shore at Hazelbeach in winter.... Oh, yes, I knew it was +Hazelbeach! Five years ago I spent a jolly week here with some friends. +We hired a little wooden hut and called it 'Buckingham Palace,' I +remember." + +He slipped his hand into her muff, capturing both hers. + +Her look of anxiety and alarm went to his heart. He had never seen Helen +frightened before; and he knew with unerring instinct that she was +afraid--_of him_. + +It was hard; for he was desperately tired in mind and body. To subside +into passive acquiescence and watch the ripples again, would be the +easier way. But he must make a fight for his newly-recovered sanity and +reason, and to convince Helen in the matter seemed the first thing to be +accomplished. + +Her hands were shaking in her muff. He held them firmly with his. + +"Darling," he said, "I know I have been very bad. I was ill in Leipzig, +though I didn't know it. But Dick Cameron told me I ought not to have +been going about there. I suppose since then I have been quite off my +head. But, oh, Helen, can't you see--- can't you _see_, darling--that I +am all right again now? I can remember practically nothing which has +happened since I played my 'cello in front of the mirror in the studio. +But, up to that moment, I remember everything quite clearly; my travels, +my manuscript, the time when I began to get feverish and lost my +sleep--I can see now the very spot where I camped when I had my first +nightmare. Then working night and day on board ship, then Leipzig, the +Hague, London in a fog; then home--to you. Helen, it has all come back. +Can't you realise that the clouds have lifted; can't you believe, my own +dear girl, that my mind is clear again? Look at the sunshine on the sea, +dispelling the morning mists. _In hoc signo vinces!_ You said the path +of clear shining was the way to victory. Well, I have conquered whatever +it was which poisoned my brain for a while. I am absolutely myself again +now. Can't you believe it, Helen?" + +The tears were running down her cheeks. She looked full into his earnest +eyes. + +"Oh, Ronnie, you do look different! You do look your own dear self. Oh, +Ronnie, my own! But Dick is coming back to-morrow. He went up to town +only this morning. He will tell us what to do. Till then, don't you +think we had better just talk about the sea, and the little houses, +and--and how happy we are?" + +"No, Helen," he said firmly. "We are not happy yet. I must know more. +How long is it since that evening in the studio?" + +"About a month, darling. This is Christmas week. To-morrow will be +Christmas Eve." + +Ronnie considered this in silence. + +Then: "Let's walk up and down," he said. "It ought to be too cold to sit +about in Christmas week." + +She rose and they walked along the sea-front together. + +Ronnie glanced behind them. The man on the seat had risen also and was +following at a little distance. + +"What cheek of that chap," he said. "He seems determined to overhear +our conversation. Shall I tell him to be off?" + +"No, dear; please don't," she answered hurriedly. "He cannot possibly +overhear us." + +Presently she dropped her muff and stooped to pick it up. But Ronnie +turned also, and saw her make a sign to the man following them, who at +once sat down on the nearest seat. + +Then poor Ronnie knew. + +"I suppose he is a keeper," he said. + +"Oh, no, darling! He is only a trained attendant; just a sort of valet +for you. Such a nice man and so attentive. He brushes your clothes." + +"I see," said Ronnie. "Valets are quite useful people. But they do not +as a rule sit reading in the middle of the morning, on the next seat to +their master and mistress! Do they? However, if Dick is coming +to-morrow, we can discuss the valet question with him. Take my arm, +Helen. I feel a bit shaky when I walk. Now tell me--why did we come +here?" + +"They thought the change of scene, the perfect quiet, and the bracing +air might do wonders for you, Ronnie." + +"Who were 'they'?" + +"Dr. Dick and--a friend of his." + +"I see. Well, I won't bully you into telling me things you are afraid I +ought not to know. But I will tell you just how much I _do_ know. It is +all a queer sort of black dream. I absolutely can't remember _seeing_ +anything, until I found myself watching the sparkle of the ripples on +the sea. But I vaguely remember _hearing_ things. There was always a +kind voice. Of course that was yours, Helen. Also there was a kind hand. +I used to try not to do anything which could hurt the kind hand. Then, +there were several strange voices; they came and went. Then there was +Mrs. Dalmain. When her voice was there I always tried to do at once what +the strange voices and the kind voice wished; because I was horribly +afraid of being left alone with Mrs. Dalmain! Then I sometimes thought I +heard a baby cry. Wasn't that queer?" + +Helen did not answer. A deep flush overspread her face, mounting from +her chin to the roots of her hair. Was Ronnie going to remember? + +"The kind voice used to say: 'Take him away, Nurse'; but I am vague +about this; because I was miles down a deep well when it happened, and +the baby was up at the top. I expect I got the idea from having called +my 'cello the Infant of Prague. Did you hear me playing, on that +evening, Helen?" + +"Yes, I heard." + +"Was it beautiful?" + +"Very beautiful, Ronnie." + +"I am longing to get back to play my 'cello again." + +"By-and-by, dear." + +"Did I talk much of the 'cello when I was ill?" + +"A good deal. But you talked chiefly of your travels and adventures; +such weird things, that the doctors often thought they were a part of +your delirium. But I found them all clearly explained in your +manuscript. I hope you won't mind, Ronnie. They asked me to glance +through it, in order to see whether anything to be found there threw +light on your illness. But of course you know, dearest, I could not do +that. I never 'glanced through' any manuscript of yours yet. Either I do +not touch them at all, or I read them carefully every word. I read this +carefully." + +"Is it all right?" + +"Ronnie, it is magnificent! Quite the best thing you have done yet. Such +brilliant descriptive writing. Even in the midst of my terrible anxiety, +I used to be carried right away from all my surroundings. Of course I do +not yet know the end; but when you are able to work again we can talk it +all over, and you will tell me." + +His sad face brightened. A look of real gladness came into it; the first +she had seen for so long. + +"I am glad it is all right," he said, simply. "I thought it was. I am +glad I am not altogether a rotter." + +After that they walked on in silence. His last remark had been so +unexpected in its bitterness, that Helen could find no words in which to +answer it. + +She glanced at her watch. It was almost time for luncheon. She pointed +out their hotel. + +"Come, darling; we can talk more easily indoors. We have a charming +private sitting-room, overlooking the sea." + +He turned at once; but as they entered the hotel gardens he said +suddenly: "Did I talk of a Upas tree, while I was off my head?" + +"Yes, Ronnie, constantly. In fact you thought you _were_ a Upas tree!" + +"I _knew_ I was a Upas tree," said Ronnie. + +"Why?" + +"Because my wife told me so, the evening I came home. How do you spell +'Upas'?" + +"U, P, A, S. Oh, Ronnie, what do you mean?" + +He paused, and shading his eyes, looked away over the sunny sea to where +the vessels, from the Hook of Holland, come into port. + +"Just that," he said. "Exactly that. Utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish. That is the Upas tree." + +"Oh, Ronnie," she cried, "if you knew--" + +But Ronnie had seen a bowler hat behind the hedge. He called its wearer +forward. + +"Mrs. West tells me you are my valet," he said. "Kindly show me to my +room." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +"HE _MUST_ REMEMBER" + +Dick arrived very early the next morning, having to be off again by the +twelve o'clock train, in order to reach that evening the place where he +was due to spend Christmas. + +A telegram from Helen had prepared him for a change in Ronnie, but +hardly for the complete restoration of mental balance which he saw in +his friend, as they hailed one another at the railway station. + +Ronnie had breakfasted early, in order to meet Dick's train. He had said +nothing of his plan to Helen, merely arranging his breakfast-hour +overnight with the "valet." + +He walked to the station alone; but, arrived there, found the "valet" on +the platform. + +"Thought I might be wanted, sir, to carry the doctor's bag," he +explained, touching his hat. But, just as the train rounded the bend, he +remarked: "Better stand back a little, sir," and took Ronnie firmly by +the arm. + +Ronnie could have knocked him down; but realised that this would be the +surest way to find himself more than ever hedged in by precautions. So +he stood back, in wrathful silence, and, as Dick's gay face appeared at +the window of a third-class smoker, the "valet" loosed his hold and +disappeared. It may here be recorded that this was the last time Ronnie +saw him. Apparently he found it necessary to carry Dr. Dick's bag all +the way back to town. + +"Hullo, old chap!" cried Dick. + +"Hullo, Dick!" said Ronnie. "This is better than Leipzig, old man. I'm +all right. I must give you a new thermometer!" + +"You shall," said Dick. "After Christmas we'll have a spree together in +town and choose it. No need to tell me you 're all right, Ronnie. It's +writ large on you, my boy. He who runs may read!" + +"Well, I wish you'd write it large on other people," said Ronnie, as +they walked out of the station. + +"What do you mean?" + +"Dick, I'm having a devil of a time! There's a smug chap in a bowler hat +who is supposed to be my valet. When I went to bed last night, I found I +had a decent room enough, opening out of the sitting-room. I was +obviously expected to turn in there, asking no questions; so I turned +in. But the valet person slept in a room communicating with mine. The +latch and the lock of the door between, had been tampered with. The door +wouldn't shut, so I had to sleep all night with that fellow able to look +in upon me at any moment. After I had been in bed a little while, I +remembered something I had left in the sitting-room and wanted. I got up +quietly to fetch it. That door was locked, on the sitting-room side!" + +"Poor old boy! We'll soon put all that right. You see you were pretty +bad, while you _were_ bad; and all kinds of precautions were necessary. +We felt sure of a complete recovery, and I always predicted that it +would be sudden. But it is bound to take a little while to get all your +surroundings readjusted. Why not go home at once? Pack up and go back to +Hollymead this afternoon, and have a real jolly Christmas there--you, +and Helen, and the kid." + +"The kid?" queried Ronnie, perplexed. "What kid? Oh, you mean my +'cello--the Infant of Prague." + +Dick, meanwhile, had bitten his tongue severely. + +"Yes, the jolly old Infant of Prague, of course. Is it 'he,' 'she,' or +'it'? I forget." + +"It," replied Ronnie, gravely. "In the peace of its presence one forgets +all wearying 'he and she' problems. Yes, I want most awfully to get back +to my 'cello. I want to make sure it is not broken; and I want to make +sure it is no dream, that I can play. But--I don't want to go, unless I +can go alone. Can't you prescribe complete solitude, as being absolutely +essential for me? Dick, I'm wretched! I don't care where I go; but I +want to get away by myself." + +"Why, old man?" + +"Because my wife still considers me insane." + +"Nonsense, Ron! And don't talk of being insane. You were never that. +Some subtle malarial poison, we shall never know what, got into your +blood, affected your brain, and you've had a bad time--a very bad +time--of being completely off your balance; the violent stage being +followed by loss of memory, and for a time, though mercifully you knew +nothing about it, complete loss of sight. But these things returned, one +by one; and, as soon as you were ready for it, you awoke to +consciousness, memory, and reason. There is no possible fear of the +return of any of the symptoms, unless you come again in contact with the +poison; hardly likely, as it attacked you in Central Africa. Of course, +as I say, we shall never know precisely what the poison was." + +Then Ronnie spoke, suddenly. "It was the Upas tree," he said. "I camped +near it. My nightmares began that night. I never felt well, from that +hour." + +"Rubbish!" said Dr. Dick. "More likely a poisonous swamp. The Upas tree +is a myth." + +"Not at all," insisted Ronnie. "It is a horrid reality. I had seen the +one in Kew Gardens. I recognised it directly, yet I camped in its +shadow. Dick, do you know what the Upas stands for?" + +"What?" + +"Selfishness! It stands for any one who is utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish." + +"Oh, buck up old man!" cried Dick. "We are all selfish--every mother's +son of us! Perhaps that's why! Most men's mothers spoil them, and their +wives continue the process. But you will be selfish with a vengeance, if +you don't buck up and give that splendid wife of yours a good time now. +She has been through--such a lot. Ronnie, you will never quite +realise--well, _I_ never knew such a woman, excepting, perhaps, Mrs. +Dalmain; and of course she has not your wife's beauty. I haven't the +smallest intention of ever coming under the yoke myself. But I assure +you, old chap, if you had pegged out, as you once or twice seemed likely +to do, I should have had a jolly good try as to whether I couldn't chip +in, by-and-by." + +"Confound you!" said Ronnie. But he laughed, and felt better. + + * * * * * + +Dr. Dick saw Helen alone. + +"Well," he said, "so we've pulled him through. Ronnie's all right now. +No more need for watching and planning, and guarding; in fact, the less +he realises the precautions which were necessary, the better. I shall +take Truscott back to town with me. He seems to have done awfully well. +I suppose you have no complaints. Why don't you hire a car and run +straight back home with Ronnie this afternoon. Think what a jolly +Christmas you might have. Show him the boy as a Christmas present! I +believe he is keen to be at home; and the less you thwart him now, the +better. Don't suggest it until I am gone; but send a wire home at once +to say you are probably returning this afternoon. Then your people will +make all needed preparations for the festive day; turkeys and holly, and +all that sort of thing; have fires lighted everywhere, and all in +readiness. My old sweetheart, Mrs. Blake, will put on cherry-coloured +ribbons, and black satin, and be in the hall to receive you! You had +better mention, in the wire, that I am not coming; then she won't waste +her time hanging mistletoe in likely corners." + +Helen wrote the telegram, rang, and gave it to a page. + +Then she turned to Dr. Dick. + +"Ronnie is _not_ fully himself, yet," she said. + +Dick looked at her keenly. "How so?" + +"He professes to remember, and does remember, everything which happened, +up to the final crash in the studio. Yet he has made no mention to me +of--of our child." + +"He is shy about it," suggested Dick. "You speak first." + +"I cannot," she replied. "It is for Ronald to do that." + +"Ah, you dear women!" moralised the young bachelor. "You remind me of +Nebuchadnezzar--no, I mean Naaman. You bravely ford the rushing waters +of your Abanas and your Pharpars, and then you buck-jump at the little +river Jordan!" + +"My dear Dick, I am becoming accustomed to the extraordinary inaptness +of your scriptural allusions. But this is hardly a _small_ matter +between me and Ronnie. I am ready to make every allowance for his +illness and loss of memory; but I don't see how I can start life with +him at home, until he manages to remember a thing of such vital import +in our wedded life. He may be sane on every other point. I cannot +consider him sane on this." + +"Shall I tell him?" suggested Dick. + +"No, let him remember. He can remember his Infant of Prague; his mind +is full of that again. Why should he not be able to remember my baby +son?" + +"Oh, lor!" sighed Dr. Dick. "Why not put that poser to Ronnie direct, +instead of putting it to me? Forgive me for saying so, but you are +suffering just now from a reaction, after the terrible strain through +which you have passed. And Ronnie is wretched too, because he remembers +how you let fly at him that evening, and he thinks you really meant it." + +"I did," said Helen. "Of course, had I known how ill he was, poor old +boy, I should have been more patient. But I have a little son to +consider now, as well as Ronnie. I _did_ think him selfish, and I _do_." + +"My dear angel," said Dr. Dick, "we are all selfish, every mother's son +of us; and it is you blessed women who make us so." + +She looked at him, with softening eyes. "_You_ are not selfish, Dick," +she said. + +"I am," he answered; "and a long chalk worse than Ronnie. I combine +ambition with my selfishness. I jolly well mean to get to the top of the +tree, and I don't care how I get there. I down every one who dares stand +in my way; or--I use them as stepping-stones. There! Isn't that a worse +Upas tree than poor old Ronnie's? Mine is a life untouched by love, or +any gentler feelings. All that sort of thing was killed in me when I was +quite a little chap. It is the story of a broken halo. Perhaps I'll tell +it you some day. Meanwhile, this being Christmas Eve and not Ash +Wednesday, I'll make no more confessions. Don't you want to hear the +result of my psychic investigations, concerning our mirror experiences?" + +"Exceedingly," said Helen. "Have you time to tell me now?" + +"Heaps of time. It won't take long. Last night I told the whole story to +a man who makes a special study of these matters, and knows more about +things psychic than any other man in England. The Brands asked me to +dinner and arranged to have him also. After dinner he and I went down +alone to the doctor's consulting room, and talked the whole thing out. I +was careful to mention no names. You don't want to be credited with a +haunted room at the Grange, neither do we want Ronnie's name mixed up +with psychical phenomena. Now I will give you this man's opinion and +explanation, exactly as he gave it to me. Only, remember, I pass it on +as his. I do not necessarily endorse it. + +"He holds that inanimate objects, such as beds, walls, cupboards, +staircases, have a power of receiving, absorbing and retaining +impressions transmitted to them through contact with human minds in +extreme conditions of stress and tension. This would especially be the +case with intimately personal things, such as musical instruments, or +favourite chairs. Old rooms and ancient furniture might retain these +impressions for centuries; and, under certain circumstances, transmit +them to any mind, with which they came in contact, happening to be +strung up to the right key to respond to the psychic impression. He +considers that this theory accounts for practically all ghost stories +and haunted rooms, passages, and staircases. It reduces all apparitions +to the subjective rather than the objective plane; in other words the +spirit of a murdered man does not return at certain times to the room in +which he was done to death; but his agonised mind, in its last conscious +moments, left an impress upon that room which produces a subjective +picture of the scene, or part of the scene, upon any mind psychically +_en rapport_ with that impress. I confess this idea appeals to me. It +accounts for the undoubted fact that certain old rooms are undeniably +creepy; also that apparitions, unconnected with actual flesh and blood, +have been seen by sane and trustworthy witnesses. It does away with the +French word for ghost--_revenant_. There is no such thing as a +'comer-back,' or an 'earth-bound spirit.' Personally, I do not believe +in immortality, in the usually accepted sense of the word; but I have +always felt that were there such a thing as a disembodied spirit, it +would have something better to do than to walk along old corridors, +frightening housemaids! But, to come to the point, concerning our own +particular experience. + +"I carefully told him every detail. He believes that probably the old +Florentine chair and the 'cello had been in conjunction before, and had +both played their part in the scene which was re-acted in the mirror. If +so, poor old Ron was jolly well in for it, seated in the chair, and +holding the 'cello. His already over-excited brain found itself caught +between them. The fitful firelight and the large mirror supplied +excellent mediums for the visualisation of the subjective picture. Of +course, we do not yet know what Ronnie saw. I trust we never shall. It +is to be hoped he has forgotten it. Had you and I seen nothing, we +should unquestionably have dismissed the whole thing as merely a +delirious nightmare of Ronnie's unhinged brain. + +"But the undoubted fact remains that we each saw, reflected in that +mirror, objects which were not at that moment in the room. In fact we +saw the _past_ reflected, rather than the _present_. My psychic +authority considers that both our impressions came to us through +Ronnie's mind, and were already fading, owing to the fact that he had +become unconscious. I, coming in later than you, merely saw the +Florentine chair in position. All else in my view of the reflection +appertained to the actual present, into which the long-ago past was then +rapidly merging. But you, coming in a few moments sooner, and being far +more _en rapport_ with the spirit of the scene, saw the tall man in a +red cloak--whom you call the Avenger--strangling the girl. By the way, +why do you call him the Avenger?" + +"Because," said Helen, slowly, "there was murder in the cruel face of +the woman, and there was a dagger in her hand. She had struck her blow +before he appeared upon the scene. I know this, because it was the flare +of his crimson cloak, as he rushed in, which first caught my eye, in the +firelight, and made me look into the mirror at all. Before that I was +intent on Ronnie. The Avenger seized the woman from behind; I saw his +brown hands on the whiteness of her throat. Grief and horror were on his +face, as he looked over her shoulder, and past the chair, at the +prostrate heap upon the floor." + +"Which heap," said Dick, trying to speak lightly, "was our poor Ronnie." + +"No," said Helen, gazing straight before her into the fire, "the heap +upon the floor was _not_ Ronnie." + +"But--I am positive!--I saw it myself! I saw you kneeling beside it. I +helped to sort it, afterwards. The actual heap on the floor was the +broken chair, Ronnie mixed up with it; and, on top of both, that unholy +Infant, whose precocious receptivity is responsible for the entire +business. I exonerate the Florentine chair; I exonerate poor Ronnie. I +shall always maintain that that confounded 'cello worked the whole show, +out of its own unaided tummy!" + +But Helen did not laugh. She did not even smile. "The heap on the floor +was not Ronnie," she repeated firmly, "nor was I kneeling beside it. The +Italian chair had not fallen over. Not a single thing appertaining to +the present, was reflected in the picture as I first saw it. Dick, there +was a conclusion to my vision of which I have never told you." + +"Oh, lor!" said Dick. "When I guaranteed the psychic chap that I was +putting him in full possession of every detail!" + +"I am sorry, Dick. But until this moment I have never felt able to tell +you. I cannot do so now, unless you are nice." + +"I _am_ nice," said Dick, "_very_ nice! Tell me quick." + +"Well, as I knelt transfixed, watching--the heap on the floor moved and +arose. It was a slight dark man, with a white face, and a mass of +tumbled black hair. He lifted from off his breast as he got up, a +violoncello. He did not look at the woman, nor at the man in the crimson +cloak; he stood staring, as if petrified with grief and dismay, at his +'cello. Following his eyes, I saw a dark jagged stab, piercing its +right breast, just above the _f_ hole. The anguish on the 'cellist's +face, was terrible to see. Then--oh, Dick, I don't know how to tell +you!" + +"Go on, Helen," he said, gently. + +"Then he turned from the 'cello, and looked at _me_; and, Dick, it was +the soul of Ronnie--_my_ Ronnie--in deepest trouble over his Infant of +Prague, which looked at me through those deep sad eyes. I cannot explain +to you how I knew it! He was totally unlike my big fair Ronnie, but--it +was the soul of Ronnie, in great distress, looking at _me_! The moment I +realised this, I seemed set free from the past. The 'cellist, the woman, +the Avenger, all vanished instantly. I saw myself reflected, I saw you, +I saw the studio; I saw Ronnie on the floor. I turned to him at once, +lifted the 'cello from his breast, and drew his head into my lap." + +"Was there a jagged hole--" + +"No, not a scratch. The stab belonged to a century ago. But, listen +Dick! Several days later, when I had a moment in which to remember +Ronnie's poor Infant of Prague, I examined it in a good light, and found +the place where the hole made by that dagger had been skilfully mended." + +"Lor!" said Dr. Dick. "We're getting on! Don't you think you and I and +the Infant might put our heads together, and write a psychic book! But +now--seriously. Do you really believe Ronnie was once a slim, pale +person, with a shock of black hair? And if he and his Infant lived +together in past ages, where were you and I? Are we altogether out of +it? Or are you the lady with the dagger, and I the noble party in the +flaming cloak?" + +She smiled, and a look of quiet peace was in her eyes. + +"Dick," she said, "I am not troubled at all about the past. My whole +concern is with the present; my earnest looking forward is to the +future. And remember, that which set me completely free to think only of +the present, was when my Ronnie's soul looked out at me from that +strange vision of the past. I cannot say exactly what I believe. But I +know my entire responsibility is to the present; my hope and confidence +are towards the future. I realise, as I have never realised before, the +deep meaning of the words: 'Lord, Thou hast been our Dwelling-place, in +all generations.' I am content to leave it at that." + +Dick sat silent; sobered, impressed, by a calm confidence of faith, +which was new to him. + +Then he said: "Good for you, Helen, that you can take it so. Personally, +I believe in nothing which I cannot fully explain and understand. +'Faith,' in your sense of the word, has no place in my vocabulary. I was +a very small boy when my faith took to itself wings and flew away; and, +curiously enough, it was while I was singing lustily, in the village +church at Dinglevale: 'As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever +shall be; world without end, Amen'!" + +"It will come back again," said Helen. "Dick, I know it will come back. +Some day you will come to me and you will say: 'It has come back.' The +thrusting hand and the prying finger are the fashion nowadays, I know. +But the grand old faith which will win out in the end, is the faith +which stands with clasped hands, in deepest reverence of belief; and, +lifting adoring eyes, is not ashamed to say to the revelation of a Risen +Christ: 'My Lord and my God!'" + +Dick stirred uneasily in his chair. + +"We have got off the subject," he said, "and it's about time we looked +up Ronnie. But, first of all: how much of all this do you mean to tell +Ronnie?" + +"Nothing whatever, if I can help it," replied Helen. "So far as I know, +I hope, after this morning, never to mention the subject again." + +"I think you are wise. And now let me give you a three-fold bit of +advice. Smash the mirror; burn the chair; brain the Infant!" + +Helen laughed. "No, no, Dick!" she said. "I can do none of those things. +I must take tenderest care of Ronnie's Infant. I have had his valuable +old chair carefully mended; and I must not let him think I fear the +mirror." + +"You're a brave woman," said Dick. "Believing what you do, you're a +brave woman to live in the house with that mirror. Or, perhaps, it comes +of believing so much. A certainty of confidence, which asks no +questions, must be to some extent a fortifying thing. By the way, you +will remember that the long rigmarole I gave you was not my own +explanation, but the expert's? Mine is considerably simpler and shorter. +In fact, it can be summed up in three words." + +"What is your explanation, Dick?" + +"Whisky and soda," said Dr. Dick, bravely. "You mixed it stiffer than +you knew. I was dead beat, and had had no food. I have always been a +fairly abstemious chap; in my profession we have to be: woe betide the +man who isn't. But since I saw that chair standing on its four legs in +the mirror, when it was lying broken on the floor in reality, I have not +touched a drop of alcohol. There! I make you a present of that for your +next temperance meeting. Now let's go out and buck Ronnie up. Remember, +he'll feel jolly flat for a bit, with no temperature. Temperature is a +thing you miss, when it has become a habit." + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +"HE NEVER KNEW!" + + +Ronnie saw Dick off by the mid-day train. + +After the train had begun to move, Dick leaned from the window, and said +suddenly: "Ronnie! talk to your wife about her Leipzig letter, and--_the +kid_, you know." + +Ronnie kept pace with the train long enough to say: "I wish you wouldn't +call it the 'kid,' Dick; it is the 'Infant.' And Helen declines to talk +of it." + +Then he dropped behind, and Dick flung himself into a corner of his +compartment, with a face of comic despair. "Merciful heavens," he said, +"slay that Infant!" + +Meanwhile Ronnie was saying to a porter: "When is the next train for +town?" + +"One fifty-five, sir." + +"Then I have no chance now of catching the three o'clock from town, for +Hollymead?" + +"Not from town, sir. But there is a way, by changing twice, which gets +you across country, and you pick up the three o'clock all right at +Huntingford, four ten." + +"Are you sure, my man? I was told there was no way across country." + +"The one fifty-five is the only train in the day by which you can do it, +sir. I happen to know, because I have a sister lives at Hollymead, so +I've done it m'self. If trains aren't late, you hit off the three +o'clock at Huntingford." + +"Thanks," said Ronnie, noting down particulars. Then he walked rapidly +back to the hotel. + +"I can't stand it," he said. "I shall bolt! With me off her hands, she +can go and have a jolly Christmas at the Dalmains. She is always welcome +there. I must get away alone and think matters out. I know everything is +all wrong, and yet I don't exactly know what has come between us. I only +know I am wretched, and so is she. It is still the poison of the Upas. +If I knew why she suddenly considered me utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish, I would do my level best to put it right. But I +don't." + +He found Helen in the hall, anxiously watching the door. She took up a +paper, as he came in. + +"Helen," he said, "do you mind if we lunch punctually at one o'clock? I +am going out before two." + +"Why, certainly we will," said Helen. "You must have had a very early +breakfast, Ronnie. But don't overdo, darling. Remember what Dick said. +Shall I come with you?" + +"I would rather go alone," said Ronnie. "I want to think things over." + +She rose and stood beside him. + +"Ronnie dear, we seem to have lost all count of days. But, as a matter +of fact, to-morrow is Christmas Day. Would you like to go home this +afternoon? We can order a car for two o'clock, and be at the Grange for +tea. Ronnie, wouldn't it be rather lovely? Think of the little cosy +tea-table, and your own especial chair, and the soft lamp-light--" + +She paused abruptly. The mental picture had recalled to both the evening +on which they last stood together in that golden lamplight. + +Ronnie hesitated, looking at the floor. Then he raised his eyes to +Helen's. "I don't think I could bear it," he said, turned from her +quickly, and went upstairs. + +In his room he scribbled a note. + +"My wife--I am awfully sorry, but I simply _had_ to bolt. Don't be +alarmed. I have gone home to the Grange. I believe, when I am by myself +in the house where we spent the three years I thought so perfect and so +happy, I shall find out what is the matter; I shall get to the very root +of the Upas tree. + +"I know I somehow hurt you horribly on the night I reached home, by +asking you to come to the studio to hear me play my 'cello; but, before +God, I haven't the faintest idea why! + +"You would not have said what you did, had you known I was ill; but +neither would you have said it, unless it had been true. If it was true +then, it is true now. If it is true now, we can't spend Christmas Day +together. + +"I want you to go to the Dalmains by motor, as soon as you find this, +and have a jolly, restful time with them. You look worn out. + + "RONNIE." + +"P.S.--I am obliged to leave this in my room. I hope you will find it +there. I don't even know where your room is, Helen, in this beastly +hotel." + +Ronnie considered his postscript; then crossed out "beastly" and +substituted "large." But "beastly" still showed, pathetically, beneath +the line. And, by-and-by, the heart of Ronnie's wife, from which all +clouds had suddenly rolled away, understood it, and wept over it, and +kissed it; and thought "beastly" a dear word! It was so quaintly like +Ronnie to substitute "large" for "beastly." + +All clouds had rolled away, before Helen read the note; for this is what +had happened. + + * * * * * + +Ronnie had excused himself when lunch was half over. + +Helen let him go, trying to act on Dr. Dick's advice not to worry him by +seeming to watch or follow him. + +So she sat on alone, finishing luncheon, and thus did not see Ronnie +walk out of the front door, carrying his bag. + +Soon afterwards she passed into the hall, and sat dipping into the +papers and thinking over her talk with Dick. + +Presently a page stepped up to her with a letter on a salver. + +Her heart stood still as she saw the stamp, the post-mark, and the +writing. It was from Aubrey Treherne, forwarded from Hollymead. + +Helen was sorely tempted for a moment to burn it unread. She had +suffered so much through a former letter in that handwriting. She +suddenly realised how cruelly Aubrey's words about Ronnie had, in the +light of Ronnie's subsequent behaviour, eaten into her soul. + +She looked at the fire. She rose and moved towards it, the letter in her +hand. + +Then better counsels prevailed. + +She went slowly upstairs to her sitting-room, closed the door, sat down, +and opened Aubrey's letter. + +It contained a smaller envelope sealed, on which was written: "Read +letter first." + +She opened the folded sheets. + + +"DEAR HELEN, + +"Yes, you are right about God's Word not returning void. Your own words, +I admit, only hardened me; but those at the end of your letter broke me +up. I am so very far removed from light and fellowship, love and +forgiveness. I doubt if I can ever get back into the way of peace. + +"But, anyhow, before the great Feast of Peace upon earth, goodwill +toward men, I can take a first step by fully confessing the great wrong +I did to you and to your husband rather more than a month ago, on the +evening which he spent at my flat. + +"Possibly you have found it out already; but possibly not, as I hear he +has been very seriously ill. + +"The evening he was here, he was more or less queer and light-headed, +but he was full of you, and of his delight in going home. I suppose this +all helped to madden me. No need to explain why. You know. + +"He had found a letter from you at the _Poste Restante_; but, rushing +around to his publishers, etc., had not had time to read it. + +"When he remembered it and found it in his pocket-book, he stood with +his back to my stove, in great excitement, and tore it open; I sitting +by. + +"As he unfolded the large sheets of foreign paper, a note flew out from +between them, and fell, unseen by him, to the floor. + +"I put my foot on it. I gathered, from extracts he read me from the +letter, that this note was of importance. + +"When he found in a postscript that you mentioned an enclosure, he +hunted everywhere for it; not thinking, of course, to look under my +foot. + +"He then concluded, on my instigation, that, after all, you had not +enclosed any note. + +"At the first opportunity I transferred it to my pocket, made an excuse +to leave the room, and read it. + +"Helen, believe me, had I known beforehand the news that note contained, +I don't think I could have been such a fiend. + +"But once having done it, I carried it through. I allowed your husband +to go home in total ignorance of the birth of his son. It was I who put +the word 'astonishing' into his telegram; and, in my letter to you, I +led you to suppose I had heard the news from him. + +"I don't know exactly what I expected to gain from all this. But, in a +condition of mad despair, I seemed playing my very last card; and I +played it for all it was worth--which apparently was not much! + +"I did plenty of other devilish work that night--chiefly mental +suggestion. This is the only really confessable thing. + +"The letter your husband never saw, is in the enclosed envelope. He will +like to have it now. + +"Thus, as you see, the Word has not returned unto you void. It brings +you the only reparation I can make. + + "AUBREY TREHERNE." + +Helen tore open the sealed envelope, and found her little pencil note, +the tender outpouring to Ronnie, written three days after her baby's +birth. + +So Ronnie never saw it--he never knew! He came home without having the +remotest idea that she had been through anything unusual in his absence. +He had heard no word or hint of the birth of his little son. Yet she had +called him utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish, because he had +quite naturally expected her to be as interested as ever in his pursuits +and pleasures. + +Oh, Ronnie, Ronnie! + + * * * * * + +She flew to his room, hoping he had not yet gone out. + +On the table she found a note addressed to herself. + +She tore it open, read it--- then went back into the sitting-room, and +pealed the bell. + +"Send my maid to me at once, and the hall-porter." + +They arrived together. + +Helen had just written a long telegram to her housekeeper. + +She spoke to the hall-porter first. + +"Send off this telegram, please. Then procure the fastest motor-car you +can find, to run me over to Hollymead this afternoon. We can be ready to +start in half-an-hour's time." + +Then she turned to her maid. + +"Jeffreys, we go home for Christmas after all. Mr. West has gone on by +train. We must pack as promptly as possible, and start in half-an-hour. +We may perhaps get home before him. I doubt whether he can catch +anything down from town before the five o'clock." + +She flew to her room, pressing Ronnie's sad little note to her heart. +All the world looked different! Ah, what would it be, now, to tell him +of his little son! But she must get home before him. Supposing Ronnie +went upstairs alone, and found the baby! + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +THE FACE IN THE MIRROR + + +Ronnie caught the three o'clock train from town, at Huntingford, as the +porter had predicted. + +No carriage was at the station, so he had a rather long walk from +Hollymead to the Grange. + +It was a clear, crisp evening and freezing hard. He could feel the frost +crackle under his feet, as he tramped along the country lanes. + +When he came in sight of the lodge, it reminded him of an old-fashioned +Christmas card; the large iron gates, their grey stone supports covered +with moss and lichen and surmounted by queer rampant beasts unknown to +zoology, holding in their stone claws oval shields on which were carved +the ancient arms of Helen's family; the little ivy-covered house, with +gabled roof and lattice-windows, firelight from within, shining golden +and ruddy on the slight sprinkling of frosty snow. + +As he passed in at the gate he saw the motherly figure of Mrs. Simpkins, +a baby on her arm, appear at the window, lifting her hand to draw down +the crimson blind. Before the blind shut in the bright interior, Ronnie +caught a glimpse of three curly heads round a small Christmas-tree on +the kitchen-table. Simpkins, in his shirt-sleeves, was lighting the +topmost candle. + +Ronnie walked on beneath the chestnuts and beeches, up the long sweep of +the park drive, a dark lonely figure. + +He was very tired; his heart was heavy and sad. + +It had been such a cheery glimpse of home, through the lodge window, +before the red blind shut it in. Simpkins was a lucky fellow. Mrs. +Simpkins looked so kind and comfortable, with the baby's head nestling +against her capacious bosom. + +Ronnie turned to look back at the brightly-lighted cottage. The ruddy +glow from the blind, fell on the snow. He wondered whether there was a +Upas tree in that humble home. Surely not! A Upas tree and a +Christmas-tree could hardly find place in the same home. The tree of +Light and Love, would displace the tree of subtle poison. + +He turned wearily from the distant light and plodded on. + +Then he remembered that, in her last letter, Helen had said: "Ronnie, we +will have a Christmas-tree this Christmas." Why had Helen said that? He +had fully intended to ask her, but had not thought of it from that hour +to this. + +Possibly it was just a wish to yield to his whim in the matter. Perhaps +she was planning to have all the little Simpkins kids up to the house. + +Well, if Helen spent Christmas with the Dalmains, she would come in for +little Geoff's Christmas-tree, which would certainly be a beauty. + +He plodded heavily on. He felt extraordinarily lonely. Would Helen miss +him? Hardly. You do not miss a selfish person. He would miss +Helen--horribly; but then Helen was not selfish. She was quite the most +unselfish person he had ever known. + +He went over in his mind all the times when Helen had instantly given up +a thing at his wish. Amongst others, he remembered how, on that spring +morning so long ago, when he had told her of his new book and of his +plan, she had been wanting to tell him something, yet he had allowed her +interest to remain untold, when she threw herself heart and soul into +his. He began to wonder what it could have been; and whether it would be +too late to ask her now. + +At last he reached the house, and felt slightly cheered to see lights +and fires within. He had almost anticipated darkness. + +Mrs. Blake herself opened the door, resplendent in black satin; lavender +ribbons in her lace cap. + +"La, sir!" she said. "Fancy you walking from the station! You must +please to excuse Simpkins being out. He has some Christmasing on at the +lodge, for his fam'ly." + +"I know," said Ronnie. "I saw a Christmas-tree as I passed. I shall not +require Simpkins. Blake, is there a fire in the studio?" + +"There is, sir, a fine one, for the good of the piano. There is also a +fire in the sitting-room, sir, where I will at once send in some tea." + +"No, not there," said Ronnie quickly. "I will have tea in the studio." + +But Mrs. Blake was firm. "That I couldn't ever, sir! Mrs. West wouldn't +wish it. She thinks so much of you having tea in her sitting-room, and +beside her fire; which is much more, so to say, cosy than that great +unfurnished room, all looking-glass." + +At mention of the mirror Ronnie shivered, and yielded. He had almost +forgotten the mirror. + +So he sat in his own favourite chair, while Blake stood and poured out +his first cup of tea, then left him to the utter loneliness of being in +that room without Helen. + +It is doubtful whether Ronnie had ever loved his wife so passionately +as he loved her while he experienced, for the first time, what it was +like to be without her, in the room where they had hitherto always been +together. + +Everything he touched, everything at which he looked, spoke of Helen; +forcing upon him the consciousness of the sweetness of her presence, and +the consequent hardness of her absence. + +Yet he had brought this hardness on himself. She had said: "Wouldn't it +be rather lovely to have tea together?" But he had answered: "I don't +think I could bear it." And now he did not know how to bear the fact +that she was not with him. + +Then he saw the chair against which he had leaned his 'cello, and with a +thrill of comfort he remembered the Infant of Prague. + +How had it fared all this time, in its canvas bag? Perhaps no one had +remembered even to put it back into that. + +Having hastily swallowed his tea, lest Blake should arrive at the studio +to inquire what had been amiss with it, Ronnie hurried down the +corridor, entered the long, low room, and turned on the electric light. +As before, a great log fire burned on the hearth; but he needed more +light now, than mere fitful fire-gleams. He wanted to examine the +Infant. + +He looked round the room, and there, on a wide settee under one of the +windows, lay a polished rosewood 'cello-case. + +Ronnie, springing forward, bent down eagerly. The key was in the lock. +He turned it, and lifted the lid. + +There lay the Infant, shining and beautiful as ever, in a +perfectly-fitting bed, lined with soft white velvet. The whole thing +carried out exactly Ronnie's favourite description of his 'cello: "just +like the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur." The +open rosewood case, with its soft white lining, was the bursting bur; +and within lay his beautiful Infant! + +Helen had done this. + +Ronnie's pleasure was largely tinged with pain. Helen, who did not like +his 'cello, had done this to please him, yet was not here to see his +pleasure. + +Ronnie drew forth the bow from its place in the lid, opened a little +nest which held the rosin, then tenderly lifted the Infant of Prague and +carried it to the light. + +At first sight, its shining surface appeared perfect as ever. Then, +looking very closely, and knowing exactly where to look, Ronnie saw a +place just above the _f_ hole on the right, where a blow had evidently +been struck deeply into the 'cello. A strip of wood, four inches long, +by one inch wide, had been let in, then varnished so perfectly that the +mend--probably the work of a hundred years ago--could only be seen in a +good light, and _by one who knew exactly where to look_. + +Ronnie stood with grave face gazing at the Infant. + +What did it all mean? + +He remembered with the utmost vividness every detail of the scene in the +mirror. + +Had he thought-read from his 'cello the happenings of a century before? +Had it transmitted to his over-wrought brain, the scene in which it had +once played so prominent a part? + +Had it, before then, in the Leipzig flat, imparted to Aubrey +Treherne--unconsciously to himself--an accurate mental picture of its +former owner? + +Ronnie mused on this, and wondered. Then the desire rose strong within +him to hear once more the golden voice of the Infant, even at the risk +of calling up again those ghostly phantoms of a vanished past. + +He drew the Florentine chair into the centre of the room. + +He took his seat on the embossed leather of crimson and gold. + +He glanced at his reflection. His face was whiter than it had been five +weeks ago, when he returned, deep bronzed, from Africa. His hair, too, +was longer than it ought to be; though not so long as the heavy black +locks of the 'cellist of that past reflection. + +Ronnie's rough tweed suit and shooting boots, were a curious contrast +to the satin knee-breeches, silken hose, and diamond shoe-buckles he +remembered in his vision; yet his manner of holding the 'cello, assumed +without conscious thought, and the positions of his knees and feet, were +so precisely those of that quaint old-time figure, that Ronnie never +doubted that when he raised the bow and his fingers bit into the +strings, the flood of harmony would be the same. + +He waited for the strong tremor to seize his wrist. + +It did not come. + +He sounded the four open strings, slowly, one after the other. + +Yes, the tones were very pure, very rich, very clear. + +Then he took courage, pressed his fingers into the finger-board, and +began to play. + +Alas, poor Infant of Prague! + +Alas, poor _born_ musician, who preferred doing things he had never +learned to do! + +The exquisite rise and fall of harmony, came not again. + +Bitterly disappointed, Ronnie waited, staring into the mirror. + +But a rather weary, very lonely, and exceedingly modern young man stared +back at him. + +At last he realised that he could no longer play the 'cello by +inspiration. So he began very carefully feeling for the notes. + +The Infant squeaked occasionally, and wailed a little; but on the whole +it behaved very well; and, after half-an-hour's work, having found out +the key which enabled him to use chiefly the open strings, Ronnie +managed to play right through, very fairly in tune, "O come, all ye +faithful, joyful and triumphant!" + +This gave him extraordinary pleasure. It seemed such a certainty of +possession, to be able to pick out all the notes for himself. + +He longed that Helen might be there to hear. + +The Infant of Prague grew dearer to him than ever. He was now mastering +it himself, independent of the antics of an old person of a century +ago, bowing away in the mirror. + +He tried again; and this time he sang the words of the first verse, as +he played. His really fine baritone blended well with the richness of +the silver strings. + +The words had occasionally to wait, suspended as it were in mid-air, +while he felt about wildly for the note on the 'cello; but, once found, +the note was true and good, and likely to lead more or less easily to +the next. + +A listener, in the corridor outside, pressed her hands to her breast, +uncertain whether she felt the more inclined to laugh or to weep. + +Ronnie began his verse again. + +"O come ... all ye ... faithful ... +joyful and tri ... tri ... tri ... _um_ +... phant ... O come, ye, O come ye, +to Beth ... Beth ... Beth ... +Be--eth--le--_hem!_" + +He paused, exhausted by the effort of drawing Bethlehem complete, out of +the complication of the Infant's four vibrating strings. + +He paused, and, lifting his eyes, looked into the mirror--and saw +therein the face of a woman, watching him from beside the door; a lovely +face, all smiles, and tears, and tenderness. + +At first he gazed, unable to believe his eyes. But, when her eyes met +his, and she knew that he saw her, she moved quickly forward, kneeled +down beside him, and--it was the face of his wife, all flooded with glad +tenderness, which, resting against his shoulder, looked up into his. + +She had spoken no word; yet at the first sight of her Ronnie knew that +the cloud which had been between them, was between no longer. + +"Helen," he said; "Oh, Helen!" + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN + + +Ronnie laid down his bow, and put his right arm round his wife. + +He still held the precious Infant of Prague between his knees, his left +hand on the ebony finger-board. + +"My darling!" Helen said. "So we shall be at home for Christmas after +all. How glad I am!" + +He looked at her dumbly, and waited. + +He felt like the prodigal, who had planned to suggest as his only +possible desert, a place among the hired servants, but was so lifted +into realisation of sonship by the father's welcome, that perforce he +left that sentence unspoken. + +So Ronnie looked at her dumbly, reading the utter love for him in her +eyes. + +Back came the words of his hymn, replete with fresh meaning. + +"O come, all ye faithful, +Joyful and triumphant!" + +They were such faithful eyes--Helen's; and now they seemed filled with +triumphant joy. + +"Ronnie," she said, "do you remember how I wrote to you at Leipzig, that +this Christmas we would have a Christmas-tree? Did not you wonder, +darling, why I said that?" + +"Yes," answered Ronnie. "I thought of it this evening when I saw a +Christmas-tree at the lodge. I had meant to ask you the night I reached +home, but I did not remember then." + +"Ah, if you had," she said, "if you only had!" + +"Well?" he questioned. "Tell me now." + +"Ronnie, do you remember that in that letter I said I had something to +tell you, and that I enclosed a note, written some weeks before, +telling you this thing?" + +"Yes, dear," said Ronnie. "But you forgot to enclose the note. It was +not there. I tore the envelope right open; I hunted high and low. Then +we concluded you had after all considered it unimportant." + +"It was all-important, Ronnie; and it _was_ there." + +"It was--_where_?" asked Ronnie. + +"Under Aubrey's foot.... Oh, hush, darling, hush! We must not say hard +things of a man who has confessed, and who is bitterly repentant. I +can't tell you the whole story now; you shall hear every detail later; +but he saw it fall from the letter, as you opened it. He was tempted, +first, to cover it with his foot; then, to put it in his pocket; and, +after he had read it, he wrote to me implying that you had told him the +news it contained; so, when you arrived home, how could I possibly +imagine that you did not know it?" + +"Did not know _what?_" asked Ronnie. + +She drew a folded paper from her pocket. + +"My darling, this will tell you best. It is the note intended to reach +you at Leipzig; it is the note which, until this afternoon, I had all +along believed you to have received." + +She put her note into his hand. + +"I hope you will be able to read it by this light, Ronnie. I was very +weak when I wrote it. I could only use pencil." + +Ronnie unfolded it gravely. + +She knelt, with bowed head, beside him. She dared not watch his face. + +She heard his breath come short and fast. He moved his knees, and let go +his 'cello. + +The Infant of Prague slipped unnoticed to the floor. + +When he read of the birth of his little son, with a hard choking sob, +Ronnie turned and gathered her to him, holding her close, yet eagerly +reading the letter over her head; reading it, to its very last word. + +Then, dropping the letter, he clasped her to him, with a strength and a +depth of tenderness such as she had never before known in Ronnie. And +his first words were not what Helen had expected. + +"Helen," he said, with another desperate tearless sob, "oh, to think +that you had to go through _that_--alone!" + +"My darling boy," she answered, "don't worry about that! It is all over, +now; and it is so true--oh, _so_ true, Ronnie--that the anguish is no +more remembered in the greatness of the joy." + +"But I can't forget," said Ronnie--"I shall never forget--that my wife +bore the suffering, the danger, the weakness, and I was not there to +share it. I did not even know what she was going through." + +"Ronnie dear--think of your little son." + +"I can think of nothing of mine just yet," he answered, "excepting of my +wife." + +She gave in to his mood, and waited; letting him hold her close in +perfect silence. + +It was strangely sweet to Helen, because it was so completely +unexpected. She had been prepared for a moment of intense surprise, +followed by a rapture of pride and delight; then a wild rush to the +nursery to see his first-born. She was quite willing, now her part was +over, that her part should be forgotten. It was as unexpected as it was +comfortingly precious, that Ronnie should be thus stricken by the +thought of her pain, and of her need of him to help her bear it. + +At last he said: "Helen, I see it all now. It was the Upas tree indeed: +utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish!" + +"My darling, no!" she cried. "Oh, don't be so unjust to yourself! When I +used those terrible words, I thought you had had my letter, had come +home knowing it all, yet absorbed completely in other things. Misled by +Aubrey, I cruelly misjudged you, Ronnie. It was not selfish to go; it +was not selfish to be away. You did not know, or you would not have +gone. I was glad you should not know, glad you should be away, so that I +could bear it alone, without hindering your work; letting you find the +joy when you reached home, without having had any of the hardness or +the worry. I wished it to be so, my darling boy--and I was glad." + +Then Ronnie gently put his wife out of his arms, and took her sweet face +between his hands, looking long into her eyes, before he made reply. And +Helen, steadfastly returning his gaze, saw a look growing in her +husband's face, such as she had never yet seen there, and knew, even +before he began to speak, what he was going to say; and her protective +love, longing as ever to shield him from pain, cried out: "Oh, must I +let him realise that?" + +But, at last, through the guidance of wiser Hands than hers, the matter +had passed beyond Helen's control. + +"My wife," said Ronnie slowly, "when I called it 'the Upas tree indeed,' +I did not mean the _one_ act of going off in ignorance and leaving you +alone during the whole of that time, when any man who cared at all would +wish to be at hand, to bear, and share, and guard. I do not brand that +as selfish; because you purposely withheld from me the truth, and bid +me go. But _why_ did you withhold it? Why, after the first shock, did +you feel glad to face the prospect of bearing it alone; glad I should be +away? Ah, here we find the very roots of the Upas tree! Was it not +because, during the whole of our married life, I have been cheerfully, +complacently selfish? I have calmly accepted as the rule of the home, +that I should hear of no worries which you could keep from me, tread +upon no thorns which you could clear out of my path, bear no burdens +which your loving hands could lift and carry out of sight. Your +interests, your pleasures, your friends, your pursuits, all have been +swept on one side, if they seemed in the smallest degree likely to +interfere with my work, my desires, my career. You have lived for +me--absolutely. I have lived for myself. True, we have loved each other +tenderly; we have been immensely happy. But, all the while, the shadow +of the Upas tree was there. My very love was selfish! It was sheer joy +to love you, because you are so sweetly, so altogether, lovable. But +when did I--because of my love for you--do one single thing at any cost +to self? I was utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish! You knew +this. You knew I hated pain, or worry, or anything which put my +comfortable life out of gear. So you gladly let me go, leaving you to +bear it all alone. You knew that, had you told me, I should have given +up my book and stayed with you; because my self-love would have been +more wounded by going than by staying. But you also knew that during all +those months you would have had to listen while I bemoaned the +circumstances, and bewailed my plot. You knew the bloom would be taken +off the coming joy, so you preferred to let me go. Oh, Helen, is not +this true?" + +She bent her head and kissed his hand. She was weeping silently. She +could not say it was not true. + +"It was the Upas tree indeed," said Ronnie. + +"Darling," she whispered, "it was my fault too--" + +"Hush," he said. "There are faults too noble to be accounted faults. +But--if you think you were at all to blame--you must atone, by truly and +faithfully helping in my fight to root up the Upas tree." + +"Ronnie," she said, "a pair of baby hands will help us both. We must +learn to live life at its highest, for the sake of our little son." + +Then, knowing he had endured as much heart-searching as a man could bear +and be the better for it, she said, smiling: + +"Ronnie, his funny little hands are so absurdly like yours." + +"Like _mine_?" repeated Ronnie, as one awaking slowly from a sad dream, +to a blissful reality. "Why are they like mine?" + +"Because he is a tiny miniature of you, you dear, silly old boy! You do +not seem to understand that you are actually a father, Ronnie, with a +little son of your own!" + +She looked up into his worn face, and saw the young glad joy of life +creep slowly back into it. + +"And his mouth, darling--his little mouth is just like yours; only, as +I told you in the letter, when I kiss it--it does not kiss back, +Ronnie." + +"What?" cried Ronnie. "What?" Then he understood; and, this time, it was +no mirage. Ronnie's desert wanderings were over. + + * * * * * + +"But don't you want to see your son?" Helen asked, presently. + +Ronnie leapt up. + +"See him? Why, of course I do! Oh, come on!... Helen! What does one say +to a very young baby?" + +Helen followed him upstairs, laughing. + +"That entirely depends upon circumstances. One usually says: 'Did it?' +'Is it then?' or 'Was it?' But I almost think present conditions require +a more definite statement of fact. I fancy one would say: 'How do you +do, baby? _I_ am your papa!' ... This way, Ronnie, in my own old +nurseries. Oh, darling, I am afraid I am going to cry! But you must not +mind. They will only be tears of unutterable joy. Think what it will be +to me, to see my baby in his father's arms!" + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +GOOD-NIGHT TO THE INFANT OF PRAGUE + + +The last hour of Christmas Eve ticked slowly to its close. + +On all around grew that sense of the herald angels, bending over a +waiting world, poised upon outstretched wings. The hush had fallen which +carries the mind away to the purple hills of Bethlehem, the watching +shepherds, the quiet folds, the sudden glory in the sky. + +The old Grange was closing its eyes at last, and settling itself to +slumber. + +One by one the brightly lighted windows darkened; the few remaining +lights moved upwards. + +The Hollymead Waits had duly arrived, and played their annual Christmas +hymns. They had won gold from Ronnie, by ministering to his new-found +proud delight in his infant son. The village blacksmith, who played the +cornet and also acted spokesman for the band, had closed the selections +of angelic music, by exclaiming hoarsely, under cover of the night: "A +merry Christmas and a 'appy New Year, to Mrs. West, to Mr. West, and to +_Master_ West!" + +Ronnie dashed out jubilant. The Waits departed well-content. + +Helen said: "You dear old silly!" + +"Master West," wakened by the cornet, also had something to say; but he +confided his remarks to his nurse, and was soon hushed back to slumber. + + * * * * * + +In the studio, the fire burned low. + +The reflections in the long mirror, were indefinite and dim. + +The Infant of Prague lay forgotten on the floor. + + * * * * * + +As midnight drew very near, the door of the studio was pushed softly +open, and Helen came in, wearing a soft white wrapper; a lighted candle +in her hand. + +She placed the candle on a table; then, stooping, carefully lifted +Ronnie's 'cello from the floor, laid it in its rosewood case, and stood +looking down upon it. Then, smiling, touched its silver strings, with +loving fingers. + +"Poor Infant of Prague!" she said. "Has Ronnie forgotten even to put you +to bed? Never mind! To-morrow you and he shall sing Christmas hymns +together, while I and his little son listen and admire." + +She closed the case. Then some impulse made her open it again. Her sweet +eyes filled with tears. No one was there to see. Ronnie's wife knelt +down and gently kissed the unconscious, shining face of the Infant of +Prague. + + * * * * * + +Turning from the settee beneath the window, she saw herself reflected in +the mirror--a tall fair figure in trailing garments, soft and white. + +She held the candle high above her head, looked at her own reflection, +and smiled. + +She was glad she was so lovely--for Ronnie's sake. + +Ronnie's love to-night was very wonderful. + +She moved towards the door, but paused in passing, to look into the +smouldering embers of the fire. + +At that moment the clocks struck midnight. She heard the Westminster +chimes, up on the landing. + +It was Christmas Day. + +"Unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given," murmured Helen. "Oh, +holy Christ of Christmas, may the new life to come be very perfect for +my Ronnie, my baby, and me." + + * * * * * + +"Helen!" came Ronnie's eager happy voice, shouting over the stairs. "I +say, _Helen_! Where are you?" + +"Coming, darling!" she called, passing out of the studio, and moving +swiftly down the corridor. + +Ronnie, on the landing, was leaning over the banisters, an expression +of comic dismay on his face. + +"Oh, I say!" he whispered. "I've done it now! I believe I've woke the +baby!" + +Helen, mounting the stairs, paused to look up at him, love and laughter +in her eyes. + +"Undoubtedly you have, you naughty boy! No shouting allowed here now, +after dark. But what do you think I was doing? Why, I was in the studio, +putting to bed the Infant of Prague." + + + + + THE END. + + + +_Almost One Million Copies of Mrs. Barclay's Popular Novels Printed_. + + * * * * * + +By Florence L. Barclay + +The Rosary + +==Cr. 8vo. $1.35 net. ($1.5O by mail.) Holiday Edition, with +Illustrations in Color by Blendon Campbell. $2.50 net. By mail, $2.75.== + +"An ideal love story--one that justifies the publishing business, +refreshes the heart of the reviewer, strengthens faith in the outcome of +the great experiment of putting humanity on earth. _The Rosary_ is a +rare book, a source of genuine delight."--_Syracuse Post-Standard._ + +The Mistress of Shenstone + +==Cr. 8vo. $1.35 net. ($1.50 by mail.) Holiday Edition, with 8 +Illustrations in Color by F.H. Townsend. $2.50 net. By mail, $2.75== + +"A worthy successor to _The Rosary_."--_Phila. Press_. + +The Following of the Star + +==With Frontispiece by F.H. Townsend. Cr. 8vo. $1.35 net. ($1.50 by +mail.) Holiday Edition, with 8 Illustrations in Color by F.H. Townsend, +$2.50 net. By mail $2.75== + +"A master work."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean_. + +Through the Postern Gate + +==(Under the Mulberry Tree)== + +A Romance in Seven Days + +==With 9 Illustrations in Color by F.H. Townsend. $1.35 net. ($1.50 by +mail.)== + +"A sweet and appealing love story told in a wholesome, simple +way."--_Literary Digest_. + +The Upas Tree + +==A Christmas Story for All the Year== + +==With Frontispiece in Color. $1.00 net. By mail, $1.10== + +A story of rare charm, powerful in conception, compelling in narrative, +and wholesome in effect. + + * * * * * + +New York G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS London + +_Myrtle Reed's New Book_ + +The White Shield + +By the Author of "Lavender and Old Lace," "The Master's Violin," etc. + +These fascinating bits of fiction reflect the characteristics of the +writer: the same vivid imagination, the quick transition from pathos to +humor, the facility of utterance, the wholesome sentiment, the purity of +thought, the delicacy of touch, the spontaneous wit which has endeared +Myrtle Reed to thousands of readers. + +_Frontispiece in color and 4 other illustrations by Dalton Stevens +beautifully printed and bound_. + +_Cloth, $1.50 net. By mail, $1.65_ + +Uniform with "A Weaver of Dreams" + +G.P. Putnam's Sons +New York London + +"_A born teller of stories. She certainly has the right stuff in +her._"--London Standard. + + +The Way of an Eagle + +By + +E.M. Dell + +_$1.35 net By mail, $1.50_ + +"In these days of overmuch involved plot and diction in the writing of +novels, a book like this brings a sense of refreshment, as much by the +virility and directness of its style as by the interest of the story it +tells.... The human interest of the book is absorbing. The descriptions +of life in India and England are delightful. ... But it is the intense +humanity of the story--above all, that of its dominating character, Nick +Ratcliffe, that will win for it a swift appreciation."--_Boston +Transcript._ + +"Well written, wholesome, overflowing with sentiment, yet never mawkish. +Lovers of good adventure will enjoy its varied excitement, while the +frankly romantic will peruse its pages with joy."--_Chicago +Record-Herald._ + +_Frontispiece in Color by John Cassel_ + + +G.P. Putnam's Sons New York London + +_Endorsed by A.C. Benson, A.E.W. Mason, W.J. Locke_ + + +Beyond the Law + +By Miriam Alexander + +_The Great Prize Novel. Awarded Prize of $1,250.00_ + +_Frontispiece in Color. $1.35 net. By mail, $1.50_ + + +A lively, unaffected, and interesting story of good craftsmanship, +showing imagination and insight, with both vivid and dramatic qualities. + +The scene is laid in Ireland and in France, the time is the William of +Orange period, and deals with the most cruel persecution against the +Catholics of Ireland. + +"The great charm of the story is that it is so essentially Irish. +Country and people are so lovingly, so feelingly, so understanding +described. The characters are strikingly original creations, finely +conceived and consistently developed. Its literary style is all that the +most critical would ask."--_Baltimore Sun._ + +G.P. Putnam's Sons +New York London + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Upas Tree, by Florence L. 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Barclay + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Upas Tree + A Christmas Story for all the Year + +Author: Florence L. Barclay + +Release Date: August 6, 2005 [EBook #16454] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UPAS TREE *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Janet Blenkinship and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + +<p><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a></p> + +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/frontise.jpg" alt="frontispiece" title="frontispiece" /></div> + +<h4>"That figure was not his own."<br /><br /></h4> + +<h4>From a drawing by F.H. Townsend. (<i>page 202</i>)]</h4> + +<h1>The Upas Tree</h1><p><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a></p> + +<h3><i>A Christmas Story for all the Year</i></h3> + +<h4>By</h4> + +<h3>Florence L. Barclay</h3> + +<h4><i>Author of "The Rosary," etc</i></h4> + + +<p class='center'>G.P. Putnam's Sons</p> + +<p class='center'>New York and London</p> + +<p class='center'>The Knickerbocker Press</p> + +<p class='center'>1912</p> + +<p><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a></p> + +<p class='center'>COPYRIGHT</p> + +<p class='center'>BY</p> + +<p class='center'>FLORENCE L. BARCLAY</p> + + +<p class='center'>The Knickerbocker Press, New York</p> + +<p><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7"></a></p> + + +<h4>To<br /> +V.C.B.<br /><br /> +53-22146</h4> +<p><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a></p> + + +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#Part_I"> <b>Part I</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I—WHICH SHALL SPEAK FIRST?</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II—THE SOB OF THE WOMAN</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III—HELEN TAKES THE INITIATIVE</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV—FIRELIGHT IN THE STUDIO</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#Part_II"> <b>Part II</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V—THE INFANT OF PRAGUE</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI—AUBREY PUTS DOWN HIS FOOT</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII—A FRIEND IN NEED</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII—PARADISE LOST</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX—THE PINNACLE OF THE TEMPLE</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#Part_III"> <b>Part III</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X—RONNIE ARRIVES IN A FOG</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI—THE MIRAGE</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII—A FRIEND IN DEED</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII—RONNIE FACES THE UPAS</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV—AS IN A MIRROR</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#Part_IV"> <b>Part IV</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV—"THE FOG LIFTS"</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI—"HE<i>MUST</i>REMEMBER"</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII—"HE NEVER KNEW!"</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII—THE FACE IN THE MIRROR</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX—UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX—GOOD-NIGHT TO THE INFANT OF PRAGUE</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<h2><a name="Part_I" id="Part_I"></a>Part I.</h2> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /><p><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></a></p><p><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h3> + +<h4>WHICH SHALL SPEAK FIRST?</h4> + + +<p>Ronald West stood at the window of his wife's sitting-room, looking +across the bright garden-borders to the wide park beyond, and wondering +how on earth he should open the subject of which his mind had been full +during their morning ride.</p> + +<p>He had swung off his own horse a few moments before; thrown the bridle +to a waiting groom, and made his way round to her stirrup. Then he had +laid his hand upon Silverheels' mane, and looking up into his wife's +glowing, handsome face, he had said: "May I come to your room for a +talk, Helen?<a name="Page_14" id="Page_14"></a> I have something very important to tell you."</p> + +<p>Helen had smiled down upon him.</p> + +<p>"I thought my cavalier was miles away from his horse and his wife, +during most of the ride. But, if he proposes taking me on the same +distant journey, he shall be forgiven. Also, I have something to tell +<i>you</i>, Ronnie, and I see the turret clock gives us an hour before +luncheon. I must scribble out a message for the village; then I will +come to you at once, without stopping to change."</p> + +<p>She laid her hand on his shoulder, and dropped lightly to the ground. +Then, telling the groom to wait, she passed into the hall.</p> + +<p>Ronald left her standing at the table, walked into the sitting-room +alone, and suddenly realised that when you have thought of a thing +continuously, day and night, during the best part of a week, and kept it +to yourself, it is not easy to begin explaining it to another +person—even though that other person be your always kind, always +understanding, altogether perfect wife!</p> + +<p><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a>He had forgotten to leave his hat and gloves in the hall. He now tossed +them into a chair—Helen's own particular chair it so happened—but kept +his riding-crop in his hand, and thwacked his leather gaiters with it, +as he stood in the bay window.</p> + +<p>It was such a perfect spring morning! The sun shone in through the +old-fashioned lattice panes.</p> + +<p>Some silly old person of a bygone century had scratched with a diamond +on one of these a rough cross, and beneath it the motto: <i>In hoc vince</i>.</p> + +<p>Ronald had inveighed against this. If Helen's old ancestor, having +nothing better to do, had wanted to write down a Latin motto, he should +have put it in his pocket-book, or, better still, on the even more +transitory pages of the blotter, instead of scribbling on the beautiful +diamond panes of the old Grange windows. But Helen had laughed and said: +"I should think he lived before the time of blotters, dear! No doubt the +morning sun was shining on the glass, Ronnie, <a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"></a>as he stood at the +window. It was of the cross gleaming in the sunlight, that he wrote: <i>In +this conquer</i>. If we could but remember it, the path of self-sacrifice +and clear shining is always the way to victory."</p> + +<p>Helen invariably stood up for her ancestors, which was annoying to a +very modern young man who, not being aware of possessing any, considered +ancestors unnecessary and obsolete.</p> + +<p>But to-day the glittering letters shone out to him as an omen.</p> + +<p>He meant to conquer, in this, as in all else.</p> + +<p>It was curious that Helen should have chanced upon the simile of a +distant journey. Another good omen! <i>In hoc vince!</i></p> + +<p>He heard her coming.</p> + +<p>Now—how should he begin? He must be very tactful. He must break it to +her gently.</p> + +<p>Helen, closing the door behind her, came slowly down the sunny room. The +graceful lines of her tall figure looked well, in the severe simplicity +of her riding-habit. Her mass of <a name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a>beautiful hair was tucked away beneath +her riding-hat. But nothing could take from the calm sweetness of her +face, nor the steady expectant kindness of her eyes. Helen's eyes always +looked out upon the world, as if they expected to behold a Vision +Beautiful.</p> + +<p>As she moved towards the bay window, she was considering whether she +would decide to have her say first, or whether she would let Ronnie +begin. Her wonderful news was so all-important. Having made up her mind +that the time had come when she might at last share it with Ronnie, it +seemed almost impossible to wait one moment before telling him. On the +other hand, it would be so absorbing to them both, that probably +Ronnie's subject would be allowed to lapse, completely forgotten and +unmentioned. Nothing which was of even the most transitory interest to +Ronnie, ever met this fate at his wife's hands. Therefore the very +certainty that her news would outweigh his, inclined her to let him +speak first.</p> + +<p>She was spared the responsibility of decision.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a>Ronald, turning quickly, faced his wife. Hesitation seemed futile; +promptness, essential. <i>In hoc vince!</i></p> + +<p>"Helen," he said, "I want to go to Central Africa."</p> + +<p>Helen looked at him in silence, during a moment of immense astonishment.</p> + +<p>Then she lifted his hat and gloves, laid them upon a table, seated +herself in her easy-chair, and carefully flicked some specks of dust +from her riding-habit.</p> + +<p>"That is a long way to want to go, darling," she said, quietly. "But I +can see you think something of imperative importance is calling you +there. Sit down and tell me all about it, right from the beginning. It +is a far cry from our happy, beautiful life here, to Central Africa. You +have jumped me to the goal, without any knowledge of the way. Now +suppose you take me gently along your mental route."</p> + +<p>Ronald flung himself, with a sigh of relief, into the deep basket-work +chair opposite Helen's. His boyish face cleared visibly; then +<a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a>brightened into enthusiasm. He stretched out his legs, put his hands +behind his head, and looked admiringly across at his wife.</p> + +<p>"Helen, you are so perfectly splendid in always understanding, always +making it quite easy for a fellow to tell you things. You have a way of +looking past all minor details, straight to the great essentials. Most +women would stand——"</p> + +<p>"Never mind what most women would do, Ronnie. I never stand, if I can +sit down! It is a waste of useful energy. But you must tell me 'the +great essentials,' as they appear to you, if I am to view them properly. +Why do you want to go to Central Africa?"</p> + +<p>Ronald leapt up and stood with his back to the mantel-piece.</p> + +<p>"Helen, I have a new plot; a quite wonderful love-story; better than +anything I have done yet. But the scene is laid in Central Africa, and I +must go out there to get the setting vivid and correct. You remember how +thrilled we were the other day, by the account of that missionary chap, +who dis<a name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a>appeared into the long grass, thirteen feet high, over twenty +years ago; lived and worked among the natives, cut off from all +civilisation; then, at last, crawled out again and saw a railway train +for the first time in twenty-three years; got on board, and came home, +full of wonderful tales of his experiences? Well—you know how, after he +had been out there a few years, he found he desperately needed a wife; +remembered a plucky girl he had known when he was a boy in England, and +managed to get a letter home, asking her to come out to him? She came, +and safely reached the place appointed, at the fringe of the wild +growth. There she waited several months. But at last the man who had +called to her in his need, crawled out of the long grass, took her to +himself, and they crawled in again—man and wife—and were seen no more, +until they reappeared many years later. Well—that true story has given +me the idea of a plot, which will, I verily believe, take the world by +storm! So original and thrilling! Far beyond any missionary +love-stories."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a>Helen's calm eyes looked into the excited shining of his.</p> + +<p>"Dear, why shouldn't a missionary's love-story be as exciting as any +other? I don't quite see how you can better the strangely enthralling +tale to which we listened."</p> + +<p>"Ah, don't you?" cried Ronald West. "That's because you are not a writer +of romances! My dear girl, <i>two</i> men crawled out of the long grass +thirteen feet high, at the place where the woman was waiting! Two +men—do you see? And the man who crawled out first was <i>not</i> the man who +had sent for her! <i>He</i> turned up just too late. Now, do you see?"</p> + +<p>"I see," said Helen. "Thirteen is always apt to be an unlucky number."</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't joke!" cried Ronald. "I haven't time to tell you, now, how it +all works out. But it's quite the strongest thing I've thought of yet. +And do you see what it means to me? Think of the weird, mysterious +atmosphere of Central Africa, as a setting for a really strong +love-interest.<a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a> Imagine three quite modern, present-day people, learning +to know their own hearts and each other's, fighting out the crisis of +their lives according to the accepted rules and standards of twentieth +century civilisation—yet all amongst the wild primitive savagery of +uncivilised tribes, and the extraordinary primeval growths of the +unexplored jungles, where plants ape animals, and animals ape men, and +all nature rears its head with a loose rein, as if defying method, law, +order and construction! Why, merely to walk through some of the tropical +houses at Kew gives one a sort of lawless feeling! If I stay long among +the queer gnarled plants—all spiky and speckled and hairy; squatting, +plump and ungainly on the ground, or spreading huge knotted arms far +overhead, as if reaching out for things they never visibly attain—I +always emerge into the ordinary English atmosphere outside, feeling +altogether unconventional. As I walk across the well-kept lawns, I find +it almost difficult to behave with decorum. It takes me quite a long +time to become really <a name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a>common-place and conventional once more."</p> + +<p>Helen smiled. "Darling," she said, "I think you must have visited the +tropical plants in Kew Gardens more frequently than I realised! I shall +have to forbid Kew, when certain important County functions are +pending."</p> + +<p>"Oh, bother the County!" cried Ronnie. "I never went in for a French +dancing-master to bid me mind my P's and Q's! But, seriously, Helen, +don't you understand how much this means to me? Both my last novels have +had tame English settings. I can't go on forever letting my people make +love in well-kept gardens!"</p> + +<p>"Dear Ronnie, you have a good precedent. The first couple on record made +love in a garden."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, darling! Eden was a quite fascinating jungle, in which all +the wild animals conversed with intelligence and affability. You don't +suppose Eve would have stood there alone, calmly listening while the +serpent talked theology, unless conversations <a name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></a>with animals had been an +every-day occurrence. Think how you'd flee to me, if an old cow in the +park suddenly asked you a question. But do let's keep to the point. I've +got a new plot, and I must have a new setting."</p> + +<p>"Why not be content to do as you have done before, Ronnie; go on +writing, simply and sincerely, of the life you live and know?"</p> + +<p>"Because, my dear girl, in common with the Athenians, people are always +wanting either to tell or to hear some new thing. I've got hold of a +jolly new thing, and I'm going to run it for all it's worth."</p> + +<p>Helen considered this in silence.</p> + +<p>Ronald walked over to the window, and beat a tattoo upon the <i>In hoc +vince</i> pane.</p> + +<p>"Do you see?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, slowly. "I see your point, but I also see danger +ahead. I am so anxious that, in your work, you should keep the object +and motive at the highest; not putting success or popularity in their +wrong place. Let success be the result of good <a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a>work well +done—conscientiously done. Let popularity follow unsought, simply from +the fact that you have been true to yourself, and to your instinctive +inspiration; that you have seen life at its best, and tried to portray +it at its highest. To go rushing off to Central Africa in order to find +a startling setting, is an angling after originality, which will by no +means ensure doing really better work. Oh, Ronnie, my advice is: be +content to stay at home, and to write truly and sincerely of the things +you know."</p> + +<p>Ronald came back to his chair; sat down, his elbows on his knees, his +chin in his hands, and looked earnestly into the troubled eyes of his +wife.</p> + +<p>"But, Helen," he said, "that really is not the point. Can't you see that +I am completely possessed by this new plot? Also, that Central Africa is +its only possible setting? It is merely a satisfactory side-issue, that +it varies my <i>mise-en-scène</i>."</p> + +<p>"Must you go off there, Ronnie, in order to write it? Why not get all +the newest and <a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a>best books on African travel, and read up facts——"</p> + +<p>"Never!" cried Ronald, on his feet again, and walking up and down the +room. "I must be steeped in the wonderful African atmosphere, before I +can sub-consciously work it into my book. No account of other men's +travels could do this for me. Besides, one might get all the main things +correct, yet make a slip in some little unimportant detail. Then, +by-and-by, some Johnny would come along, who could no more have written +a page of your book than he could fly, but who happens to be intimately +acquainted with the locality. He ignores the plot, the character-study, +all the careful work on the essentials; but he spots your trivial error +concerning some completely unimportant detail. So off he writes to the +papers, triumphantly airing his little tit-bit of superior information; +other mediocre people take it up—and you never hear the end of it."</p> + +<p>Helen laughed, tender amusement in her eyes.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a>"Ronnie dear, I admit that not many Johnnies could write your books. +But most Johnnies can fly, now-a-days! You must be more up-to-date in +your similes, old boy; or you will have your wife writing to the papers, +remarking that you are behind the times! But, seriously, Ronnie, you +should be grateful to anybody who takes the trouble to point out an +error, however small, in one of your books. You are keen that your work +should be perfect; and if a mistake is mentioned, it can be set right. +Why, surely you remember, when you read me the scene in the manuscript +you wrote just after our marriage, in which a good lady could not sit +down upon a small chair, owing to her <i>toupet</i>, I—your admiring and +awestruck wife—ventured to point out that a <i>toupet</i> was not a +crinoline; and you were quite grateful, Ronnie. You did not consider me +an unappreciative Johnny, nor even a mediocre person! Who has, unknown +to me, been trampling on your susceptibilities?"</p> + +<p>"Nobody, thank goodness! I have never <a name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></a>written a scene yet, of which I +had not carefully verified every detail of the setting. But it has +happened lots of times to people I know. Unimportant slips never seem to +me to matter in another fellow's work, but they would matter +desperately, horribly, appallingly in one's own. Therefore, nothing will +ever induce me to place the plot of a novel of mine, in surroundings +with which I am not completely familiar. Helen—I must go to Central +Africa."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<h4>THE SOB OF THE WOMAN</h4> + + +<p>Helen took off her riding-hat, and passed her fingers through the +abundant waves of her hair.</p> + +<p>"How long would it take you, Ronnie?" "Well—including the journey out, +and the journey back, I ought to have a clear seven months. If we could +get off in a fortnight, we might be back early in November; anyway, in +plenty of time for Christmas."</p> + +<p>"Why do you say 'we,' darling?"</p> + +<p>"Why not say 'we'? We always do, don't we?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear. For three happy years it has always been 'we,' in +everything. We have not been parted for longer than twelve hours at a +time, Ronnie. But I fear Central Africa cannot be 'we.' I do not feel +that I could go out there with you."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a>"Helen! Why not? I thought you would be keen on it. I thought you were +game to go anywhere!" Amazement and dismay were in his eyes.</p> + +<p>She rose slowly, went over to the mantel-piece, moved some little +porcelain figures, then put them back again.</p> + +<p>When at length she spoke, she steadied her voice with an effort.</p> + +<p>"Ronnie dear, Central Africa is not a place for a woman."</p> + +<p>"But, my dearest girl, a woman arrives there in my story! She crawls +into the long grass with the man she loves, and disappears. Our +missionary's bride did it. Where a woman could not go, <i>I</i> must not go +for my local colour. Oh, I say, Helen! You won't fail me?"</p> + +<p>He walked over to the window, and drummed again, with restless, nervous +fingers, upon the <i>In hoc vince</i> pane.</p> + +<p>She came behind him, laying her hand on his shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Darling, it will break my heart if you <a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a>think I am failing you. But, +while you have been talking, I have faced the matter out, and—I must +tell you at once—I cannot feel it either right or possible to go. I +could not be away just now, for seven months. This place must be looked +after. Think of the little church we are building in the village; the +farms changing tenants this summer; the hundred and one things I, and I +only, must settle and arrange. You never see the bailiff; you hardly +know the tenants; you do not oversee the workpeople. So you can scarcely +judge, dear Ronnie, how important is my presence here; how almost +impossible it would be for me suddenly to go completely out of reach. My +darling—if you keep to it, if you really intend to go, we must face the +fact that it will mean, for us, a long parting."</p> + +<p>The tension of suspense held the stillness of the room.</p> + +<p>Then: "It is my profession," said Ronald West, huskily. "It is my +career."</p> + +<p>She moved round and faced him. They stood looking at one another, +dumbly.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></a>She knew all that was in his mind, and most that was in his heart.</p> + +<p>He knew nothing of that which filled her mind at the moment, and only +partly realised the great, unselfish love for him which filled her +heart.</p> + +<p>He was completely understood. He rested in that fact, without in the +least comprehending his own lack of comprehension.</p> + +<p>Moving close to him, she laid both hands upon his shoulders, hiding her +face in silence against his breast.</p> + +<p>He stroked her soft hair—helplessly, tenderly.</p> + +<p>With his whole heart he loved her, leaned upon her, needed her. She had +done everything for him; been everything to him.</p> + +<p>But he meant to carry his point. He intended to go to Central Africa, +and it was no sort of good pretending he did not. You never pretended +with Helen, because she saw through you immediately, and usually told +you so.</p> + +<p>He had not spent a single night away from <a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a>her since that wonderful day +when, calm and radiant, she had moved up the church in presence of an +admiring crowd, and taken her place at his side.</p> + +<p>He was practically unknown then, as a writer. No one but Helen believed +in him, or understood what he had it in him to accomplish. Whereas Helen +herself was the last representative of an ancient County family, owner +of Hollymead Grange, and of a considerable income; courted, admired, +sought after. Yet she gave herself to him, in humble tenderness. Helen +had a royal way of giving. The very way she throned you in her heart, +dropped you on one knee before her footstool.</p> + +<p>He had fully justified her belief in him; but he well knew how much of +his success he owed to her. Their love had taught him lessons, given him +ideals which had not been his before.</p> + +<p>But there was nothing selfish or sentimental about Helen. When the most +sacred of their experiences crept into his work, and stood <a name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a>revealed for +all the world to read; when his art transferred to hard type, and to the +black and white of print and paper, the magic thrill of Helen's +tenderness, so that all her friends could buy it for four shillings and +sixpence, and discuss it at leisure, Helen never winced. She only smiled +and said: "The world has a right to every beautiful thing we can give +it. I have always felt indignant with the people who collect musical +instruments which they have no intention of playing; who lock up Strads +and Cremonas in glass cases, thus holding them dumb for ever to the +eager ear of a listening world."</p> + +<p>Only once, when he had put into a story a tender little name by which +Helen sometimes called him, unable to resist giving his hero the bliss +he, on those rare occasions, himself felt—he found a firm pencil line +drawn through the words, when he looked at the proof sheets, after Helen +had returned them to his desk. She never mentioned the matter to him, +nor did he speak of it to her; but his <a name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a>hero had to forego that +particular thrill, and it was a long time before Ronald himself heard +again the words Helen had deleted.</p> + +<p>He heard them now, however—murmured very softly; and he caught her to +him with sudden passion, kissing her hair.</p> + +<p>Yet he meant to go. <i>In hoc vince</i>. He must conquer his very need of +her, if it came between him and the best thing he had yet done in his +work.</p> + +<p>He could not face the thought of the parting; but there was no need to +face that as yet. A whole fortnight intervened. It is useless to suffer +a pang until the pang is actually upon you. Besides, every +experience—however hard to bear—is of value. How much more harrowing +and vivid would be his next description of a parting——</p> + +<p>Then, suddenly, Ronald felt ashamed. His arms dropped from around her. +He knew himself unworthy—in a momentary flash of self-revelation he +knew himself utterly unworthy—of Helen's generous love, and noble +womanhood.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a>"My wife," he said, "I won't go. It isn't worth it."</p> + +<p>Her arms strained around him, and he heard her sob; and, alas—it was +the sob of the woman in the long grass, when she clung to the man who +had crawled out first. His plot stood out to him once more as the +supreme thing.</p> + +<p>"At least," he added, "it wouldn't be worth it, if it costs you so much. +It <i>is</i> my strongest plot, but I will give it up if you would rather I +stayed at home."</p> + +<p>Then Helen loosed her detaining arms, and lifting a brave white face, +smiled at him through her tears.</p> + +<p>"No, Ronnie," she said. "I promised, when we married, always to help you +with your work and to make it easy. I am not going to fail you now. If +the new book requires a parting, we will face it bravely. At the present +moment we both need luncheon, and I must get out of my habit. Ring, and +tell them we shall not be ready for a quarter of an hour, there's a dear +boy! And think of <a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a>something really funny to tell me at lunch. +Afterwards we will discuss plans."</p> + +<p>She had reached the door when Ronald suddenly called after her: "Helen! +Hadn't you something to tell me, too?"</p> + +<p>She turned in the doorway. Her face was gay with smiles.</p> + +<p>"Oh, mine must wait," she said. "Your new plot, and the wonderful +journey it involves, require our undivided attention."</p> + +<p>The sun shone very brightly just then. It touched the halo of Helen's +soft hair, turning it to gold. <i>In hoc vince</i> gleamed upon the pane.</p> + +<p>For a moment she stood in the doorway, giving him a chance to insist +upon hearing that which she had to tell. But Ronald, easily satisfied, +turned and rang the bell.</p> + +<p>"All right, sweet," he said. "How lovely you look in the sunshine! If it +was business, or anything worrying, I would certainly rather not hear it +now. You have bucked me up splendidly, Helen. Seven months seem nothing; +and my whole mind is bounding <a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a>forward into my story. I really must give +you an outline of the plot." He followed her into the hall. "Helen! Do +come back for a minute."</p> + +<p>But Helen was half way up the stairs. He heard her laugh as she reached +the landing.</p> + +<p>"I am hungry, dear," she called over the banisters, "and so are you, +only you don't know it! Crawl out of your long grass, and make yourself +presentable before the gong sounds; or I shall send bananas for one, to +your study!"</p> + +<p>"All right!" he shouted; gave Helen's message to the butler; then went +through the billiard-room, whistling gaily.</p> + +<p>"Why, she is as keen as I am," he said to himself, as he turned on the +hot and cold water taps. "And she is perfectly right about not coming +with me. Of course it's jolly hard to leave her; but I believe I shall +do better work alone."</p> + +<p>His mind went back to Helen's bright face in the doorway. He realised +her mastery, for his sake, of her own dread of the parting.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a>"What a brick she is!" he said. "Always so perfectly plucky. I don't +believe any other fellow in the world has such a wife as Helen!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<h4>HELEN TAKES THE INITIATIVE</h4> + + +<p>Having once made up her mind that it was right and wise to let Ronnie +go, Helen did not falter. She immediately took control of all necessary +arrangements. Nothing was forgotten. Ronnie's outfit was managed with as +little trouble to himself as possible. They dealt together, in a gay +morning at the Stores, with all interesting items, but those he called +"the dull things" apparently selected themselves. Anyway, they all +appeared in his room, when the time came for packing.</p> + +<p>So whole-hearted was his wife's interest in the undertaking, that Ronnie +almost began to look upon it as her plan.</p> + +<p>It was she who arranged routes and booked his passages.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a>When Cook's cheque had to be written it was a large one.</p> + +<p>Helen took out her cheque book.</p> + +<p>"No, no, dear," said Ronnie. "I must pay it out of my own earnings. It +is a literary speculation."</p> + +<p>Helen hesitated. She knew Ronnie did not realise how much the new +building and necessary repairs on the estate were costing her this year.</p> + +<p>"What is your balance at the bank, Ronnie?"</p> + +<p>"I haven't the remotest idea."</p> + +<p>"Darling, why don't you make a note of your last balance on your +counterfoil? Then at any moment you can add up all subsequent cheques +and see at a glance how you stand."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know, you have explained all that to me before, Helen. But, you +see, most of my counterfoils are blank! I forget to fill them in. You +can't write books, and also keep accounts. If you really think it +important, I might give up the former, and turn my whole attention to +the latter."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a>"Don't be silly, dear! You are blessed with a wife who keeps a careful +account of every penny of her own. But I know nothing of your earnings +and spendings, excepting when you suddenly remark at breakfast: 'Hullo! +Here's a useful little cheque for a thousand'—in much the same tone of +voice as you exclaim the next minute: 'Hullo! What excellent +hot-buttered toast!' Ronnie, I wish you would manage to invest rather +more."</p> + +<p>"My dear girl, I have invested heaps! You made me. But what is the use +of saving money when there are only ourselves to consider? We may as +well spend it, and have a good time. If there were kiddies to leave it +to, it would be different. I had so long of being impecunious, that I +particularly enjoy feeling bottomless! Besides, each year will bring in +more. This African book ought to be worth all the rest put together."</p> + +<p>Helen was silent; but she sighed as she filled in Cook's cheque and +signed it. Ronald had spoken so lightly of the great disappoint<a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a>ment of +their married life. It was always difficult to get Ronnie to take things +seriously. The fact was: he took <i>himself</i> so seriously, that he was +obliged to compensate by taking everything and everybody else rather +lightly. No doubt this arrangement of relative values, made for success. +Ronnie's success had been very rapid, and very brilliant. He accepted it +with the unconscious modesty of the true artist; his work meaning +immeasurably more to him than that which his work brought him, either in +praise or pennies.</p> + +<p>But Helen gloried in the praise, kept a watchful eye, so far as he would +let her, on the pennies; and herself ministered to the idea that all +else must be subservient, where Ronnie's literary career was concerned.</p> + +<p>She was ministering to it now, at a personal cost known only to her own +brave heart.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h3> + +<h4>FIRELIGHT IN THE STUDIO</h4> + + +<p>It was Ronnie's last evening in England. The parting, which had seemed +so far away, must take place on the morrow. It took all Helen's bright +courage to keep up Ronnie's spirits.</p> + +<p>After dinner they sat together in a room they still called the studio, +although Helen had given up her painting, soon after their marriage.</p> + +<p>It was a large old-fashioned room, oak-panelled and spacious.</p> + +<p>A huge mirror, in a massive gilt frame, hung upon the wall opposite door +and fireplace, reaching from the ceiling to the parquet floor.</p> + +<p>Ronald, who used the studio as a smoking-room, had introduced three or +four deep wicker chairs, comfortably cushioned, and a couple of oriental +tables.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a>The fireplace lent itself grandly in winter to great log-fires, when +the crimson curtains were drawn in ample folds over the many windows, +shutting out the dank bleakness of the park without, and imparting a +look of cosiness to the empty room.</p> + +<p>A dozen old family portraits—banished from more important places, +because their expressions annoyed Ronnie—were crowded into whatever +space was available, and glowered down, from the bad light to which they +had been relegated, on the very modern young man whose uncomplimentary +remarks had effected their banishment, and who sprawled luxuriously in +the firelight, monarch of all he surveyed, in the domain which for +centuries had been their own.</p> + +<p>The only other thing in the room was a piano, on which Ronnie very +effectively and very inaccurately strummed by ear; and on which Helen, +with careful skill, played his accompaniments, when he was seized with a +sudden desire to sing.</p> + +<p>Ronald's music was always a perplexity <a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a>to Helen. There was a quality +about it so extraordinarily, so unusually, beautiful; combined with an +entire lack of method or of training, and a quite startling ignorance of +the most rudimentary rules.</p> + +<p>On one occasion, during a sharp attack of influenza, when he had +insisted upon being down and about, with a temperature of 104, he +suddenly rose from the depths of a chair in which he had been lying, +talking wild and feverish nonsense; stumbled over to the piano, dropped +heavily upon the stool, then proceeded to play and sing, in a way, which +brought tears to his wife's eyes, while her heart stood still with +anxiety and wonder.</p> + +<p>Yet, when she mentioned it a few days later, he appeared to have +forgotten all about it, turning the subject with almost petulant +abruptness.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>But, on this their last evening together, the piano stood unheeded. They +seemed only to want two chairs, and each other.</p> + +<p>She could hardly take her eyes from his <a name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></a>face, remembering how many +months must pass before she could see him again. Yet it was Ronnie who +made moan, and Helen who bravely comforted; turning as often as possible +to earnest discussion of his plot and its possibilities. But after a +while even she went under, to the thought of the nearness of the +parting.</p> + +<p>Though it was late in April, the evenings were chilly; a fire glowed in +the grate.</p> + +<p>Presently Ronnie rose, turned off the electric light, and seated himself +on the rug in the firelight, resting his head against his wife's knees.</p> + +<p>Silently she passed her fingers through his hair.</p> + +<p>Something in the quality of her silence turned Ronald's thoughts from +himself to her alone. "Helen," he said, "I hate to be leaving you. Shall +you be very lonely?"</p> + +<p>She could not answer.</p> + +<p>"You are sure your good old Mademoiselle Victorine is coming to be with +you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear. She holds herself in readiness <a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a>to come as soon as I feel +able to send for her. She and I lived alone together here during +eighteen months, after Papa's death. We were very quietly happy. I do +not see why we should not be happy again."</p> + +<p>"What shall you do all day?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I shall have my duties in the village and on the estate; and, for +our recreation, we shall read French and German, and do plenty of music. +Mademoiselle Victorine delights in playing what she calls '<i>des à quatre +mains</i>,' which consist in our both prancing vigorously upon the same +piano; she steadily punishing the bass; while I fly after her, on the +more lively treble. It is good practice; it has its fascinations, and it +will take the place of riding, for me."</p> + +<p>"Shan't you ride, Helen?"</p> + +<p>"No, Ronnie; not without you."</p> + +<p>"Will you and Mademoiselle Victorine drive your four-in-hands in here?"</p> + +<p>"No, not in here, darling. I don't think I shall be able to bear to +touch the piano on which you play to me."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a>"I don't play," said Ronnie. "I strum."</p> + +<p>"True, dear. You often strum. But sometimes you play quite wonderfully. +I wish you had been properly taught!"</p> + +<p>"I always hated being taught anything," said Ronald. "I like doing +things, without learning to do them. And I know what you mean, about the +times when I really play. But, excepting when the mood is on me, I don't +care to think of those times. I never feel really myself when it +happens. I seem to be listening to somebody else playing, and trying to +remember something I have hopelessly forgotten. It gives me a strained, +uncanny feeling, Helen."</p> + +<p>"Does it, darling? Then let us talk of something else. Oh, Ronnie, you +must promise me to take care of your health out in that climate! I +believe you are going at the very worst time of year."</p> + +<p>"I have to know it at its worst and at its hottest," he said. "But I +shall be all right. I'm strong as a horse, and sound in wind and limb."</p> + +<p>"I hope you will get good food."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a>He laughed. "I expect to have to live on just whatever I can shoot or +grub up. You see, the more completely I leave all civilisation, the more +correctly I shall get my 'copy.' I can't crawl into the long grass, +carrying tins of sardines and bottles of Bass!"</p> + +<p>"You might take meat lozenges," suggested Ronnie's wife.</p> + +<p>"Meat lozenges, darling, are concentrated nastiness. I felt like an +unhealthy bullock the whole of the rest of the day when, to please you, +I sucked one while we were mountain climbing. I propose living on +interesting and unique fruits and roots—all the things which correspond +to locusts and wild honey. But, Helen, I am afraid there will be quite a +long time during which I shall not be able either to send or to receive +letters. We shall have to console ourselves with the trite old saying: +'No news is good news.' Of course, so far as I am concerned, it would be +useless to hear of any cause for anxiety or worry when I could not +possibly get back, or deal with it."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></a>"You shall not hear of any worries, or have any anxieties, darling. If +difficulties arise, I will deal with them. You must keep a perfectly +free mind, all the time. For my part, I will try not to give way to +panics about you, if you will promise to cable occasionally, and to +write as often as you can."</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> won't go and get ill, will you, Helen?"</p> + +<p>She smiled, laying her cheek on the top of his head, as she bent over +him.</p> + +<p>"I never get ill, darling. Like you, I am sound in wind and limb. We are +a most healthy couple."</p> + +<p>"We shall both be thirty, Helen, before we meet again. You will attain +to that advanced age a month before I shall. On your birthday I shall +drink your health in some weird concoction of juices; and I shall say to +all the lions and tigers, hippopotamuses, cockatrices and asps, sitting +round my camp fire: 'You will hardly believe it, my heathen hearers, out +in this well-ordered jungle, where the female is kept in her proper +place—but my wife has had the cheek to march <a name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></a>up to-day into the next +decade, leaving me behind in the youthful twenties!'—Oh, Helen, I wish +we had a little kiddie playing around! I am tired of being the youngest +of the family."</p> + +<p>She clasped both hands about his throat. He might have heard the beating +of her heart—had he been listening.</p> + +<p>"Ronald, that is a joy which may yet be ours—some day. But my writer of +romances, who is such a stickler for grammatical accuracy, is surely the +<i>younger</i> of a family of <i>two</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, grammar be—relegated to the library!" cried Ronnie, laughing. "And +you really presume too much on that one short month, Helen. You often +treat me as if I were an infant."</p> + +<p>The smile in her eyes held the mother look, in its yearning tenderness.</p> + +<p>"Ronnie dear, you <i>are</i> so very much younger than I, in many ways; and +you always will be. Unlike the 'Infant of Days,' if you live to be a +hundred years old, you will still die young; a child in heart, full of +youth's <a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a>joyous joy in living. You must not mind if your wife +occasionally treats you as though you were a dear big baby, requiring +maternal care and petting. You are such a veritable boy sometimes, and +it soothes the yearning for a little son of yours to cuddle in her arms, +when she plays that her big boy is something of a baby."</p> + +<p>Ronald took her left hand from about his neck, and kissed it tenderly.</p> + +<p>This was his only answer, but his silence meant more to Helen than +speech. Words flowed so readily to express his surface thoughts; but +when words suddenly and unexpectedly failed, a deeper depth had been +reached; and in that silence, his wife found comfort and content.</p> + +<p>Ronnie was not all ripples. There was more beneath than the shifting +shallows. Deep, still pools were there, and rocks on which might +eventually be built a beacon-light for the souls of men. But, as yet, it +took Helen's clear and faithful eyes to discern the pools; to perceive +the possible strong foundations.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a>"Do you remember," he said presently, "the Dalmains coming over last +January, with their little Geoff? When I saw that jolly little chap +trotting about, and looking up at his mother with big shining eyes, full +of trustful love and innocent courage, absolutely +unafraid—notwithstanding her rather peremptory manner, and apparently +stern discipline—I felt that it must be the making of two people to +have such a little son as that, depending upon them to show him how to +grow up right. One would simply be obliged to live up to his baby belief +in one; wouldn't one, Helen?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, darling; we—we should."</p> + +<p>"I hope you will see a lot of the Dalmains while I am away. Try to put +in a good long visit there. And she would come over, if you wanted her, +wouldn't she?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; she will come if I want her."</p> + +<p>"You and she are great friends," pursued Ronnie, "aren't you? <i>I</i> find +her alarming. When she looks at me, I feel such a worm. I want to slide +into a hole and hide. But <a name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></a>there is never a hole to be found. I have to +remain erect, handing tea and bread-and-butter, while I mentally grovel. +I almost pray that a hungry blackbird or a prying thrush may chance to +come my way, and consider me juicy and appetising. You remember—the +Vicar and <i>Mrs.</i> Vicar came to tea that day. She wore brown spots. But +even the priestly blackbird, and the Levitical thrush, passed me by on +the other side."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Ronnie, how silly! I know Jane admires your books, darling!"</p> + +<p>"She considers me quite unfit to tie your shoe-strings."</p> + +<p>"Ronnie, be quiet! You would not be afraid of her, had you ever known +what it was to turn to her in trouble or difficulty. She helped me +through an awfully hard time, six months before I met you. She showed me +the right thing to do, then stood by me while I did it. There is nobody +in the whole world quite like her."</p> + +<p>"Well, send for her if you get into any troubles while I am away. I +shall feel quite <a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a>brave about her being here, when I am safely hidden in +the long grass!"</p> + +<p>"Is there any possible chance that you will get back sooner than you +think, Ronnie?"</p> + +<p>"Hardly. Not before November, anyway. And yesterday my publishers were +keen that I should put in a night at Leipzig on my way home, and a night +at the Hague; show whatever 'copy' I have to firms there, and make +arrangements for German and Dutch translations to appear as soon as +possible after the English edition is out. I think I may as well do +this, and return by the Hook of Holland. I enjoy the night-crossing, and +like reaching London early in the morning. By the way, haven't you a +cousin of some sort living at Leipzig?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; my first cousin, Aubrey Treherne. He is studying music, and +working on compositions of his own, I believe. He lives in a flat in the +Grassi Strasse."</p> + +<p>"All right. Put his address in my pocket-book. I will look him up. My +special chum, Dick Cameron, is to be out there in November, +<a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a>investigating one of their queer water-cures. I wish you knew Dick +Cameron, Helen. I shall hope to see him, too. Has your cousin a spare +room in his flat?"</p> + +<p>"I do not know. Ronnie, Aubrey Treherne is not a good man. He is not a +man you should trust."</p> + +<p>"Darling, you don't necessarily trust a fellow because he puts you up +for the night. But I daresay Dick will find me a room."</p> + +<p>"Aubrey is not a good man," repeated Helen firmly.</p> + +<p>"Dear, we are none of us good."</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> are, Ronnie—in the sense I mean, or I should not have married +you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, then, yes <i>please</i>!" said Ronnie. "I am very, very good!"</p> + +<p>He laughed up at her, but Helen's face was grave. Then a sudden thought +brightened it.</p> + +<p>"If you really go to Leipzig, Ronnie, could you look in at +Zimmermann's—a first-rate place for musical instruments of all +kinds—and choose me a small organ for the new church? I saw a little +beauty the other day <a name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></a>at Huntingford; a perfect tone, twelve stops, and +quite easy to play. They had had it sent over from Leipzig. It cost only +twenty-four pounds. In England, one could hardly have bought so good an +instrument for less than forty. If you could choose one with a really +sweet tone, and have it shipped over here, I should be grateful."</p> + +<p>"With pleasure, darling. I enjoy trying all sorts of instruments. But +why economise over the organ? If my wife fancied a hundred guinea organ, +I could give it her."</p> + +<p>"No, you couldn't, Ronnie. You must not be extravagant."</p> + +<p>"I am not extravagant, dear. Buying things one can afford is not +extravagance."</p> + +<p>"Sometimes it is. Extravagance is not spending money. But it is paying a +higher price for a thing than the actual need demands, or than the +circumstances justify. I considered you extravagant last winter when you +paid five guineas for a box at Olympia, intended to hold eight people, +and sat in it, in solitary grandeur, alone with your wife."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></a>"I know you did," said Ronnie. "You left me no possible loop-hole for +doubt in the matter. But your quite mistaken view, on that occasion, +arose from an incorrect estimate of values. I paid one pound, six +shillings and three-pence for the two seats, and three pounds, eighteen +and nine-pence for the pleasure of sitting alone with my wife, and +thought it cheap at that. It was a far lower price than the actual need +demanded; therefore, by your own showing, it was not extravagant."</p> + +<p>"Oh, what a boy it is!" sighed Helen, with a little gesture of despair. +"Then, last Christmas, Ronnie, you insisted upon fêting the old people +with all kinds of unnecessary luxuries. They had always been quite +content with wholesome bread-and-butter, plum cake, and nice hot tea. +They did not require <i>pâté de foie gras</i> and champagne, nor did they +understand or really enjoy them. One old lady, in considerable distress, +confided to me the fact that the champagne tasted to her 'like physic +with a fizzle in it.' It made <a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a>most of them ill, Ronnie, and cost at +least eight times as much as my simple Christmas parties of other years. +So don't go and spend an unnecessary sum on an elaborate, and probably +less useful, instrument. I will write you full particulars when the time +comes. Oh, Ronnie, you will be so nearly home, by then! How shall I +wait?"</p> + +<p>"I shall love to feel I have something to do for you in Leipzig," said +Ronnie; "and I enjoy poking about among crowds of queer instruments. I +should like to have played in Nebuchadnezzar's band. I should have +played the sackbut, because I haven't the faintest notion how you work +the thing—whether you blow into it, or pull it in and out, or tread +upon it; nor what manner of surprising sound it emits, when you do any +or all of these things. I love springing surprises on myself and on +other people; and I know I do best the things which, if I considered the +matter beforehand, I shouldn't have the veriest ghost of a notion how to +set about doing. That, darling, is inspiration!<a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a> I should have played +the sackbut by inspiration; whereupon Nebuchadnezzar would instantly +have had me cast into the burning fiery furnace."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Ronnie, I wish I could laugh! But to-morrow is so near. What shall +I do when there is nobody here to tell me silly stories?"</p> + +<p>"Ask Mademoiselle Victorine to try her hand at it. Say: 'Chère +Mademoiselle, s'il-vous-plait, racontez-moi une extrêmement sotte +histoire.'"</p> + +<p>"Ronnie, do stop chaffing! Go and play me something really beautiful, +and sing very softly, as you did the other night; so that I can hear the +tones of the piano and your voice vibrating together."</p> + +<p>"No," said Ronnie, "I can't. I have a cast-iron lump in my throat just +now, and not a note could pass it. Besides, I don't really play the +piano."</p> + +<p>He stretched out his foot, and kicked a log into the fire.</p> + +<p>The flame shot up, illumining the room.<a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a> The log-fire, and the two +seated near it, were reflected fitfully in the distant mirror.</p> + +<p>"Helen, there is one instrument, above all others, which I have always +longed to play; yet I have never even held one in my hand."</p> + +<p>"What instrument is that, darling?"</p> + +<p>"The violoncello," said Ronnie, sitting up and turning towards her as he +spoke. "When I think of a 'cello I seem as if I know exactly how it +would feel to hold it between my knees, press my fingers up and down the +yielding strings, and draw the bow across them. Helen—if I had a 'cello +here to-night, you would listen to sounds of such exquisite throbbing +beauty, that you would forget everything in this world, my wife, +excepting that I love you."</p> + +<p>His eyes shone in the firelight. An older look of deeper strength and of +fuller manly vigour came into his face. The glow of love transfigured +it.</p> + +<p>With an uncontrollable sob, Helen stooped and laid her lips on his.</p> + +<p>The clock struck midnight.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a>"Oh, Ronnie," she said; "oh, Ronnie! It is <i>to-day</i>, now! No longer +to-morrow—but to-day!"</p> + +<p>He sprang to his feet, took her hand, and drew her to the door.</p> + +<p>"Come, Helen," he said.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /><p><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a></p><p><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></a></p> +<h2><a name="Part_II" id="Part_II"></a>Part II</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /><p><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a></p><p><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h3> + +<h4>THE INFANT OF PRAGUE</h4> + + +<p>Two men, in a flat at Leipzig, sat on either side of a tall porcelain +stove.</p> + +<p>The small door in the stove stood open, letting a ruddy glow shine from +within, a poor substitute for the open fires blazing merrily in England +on this chill November evening; yet giving visible evidence of the heat +contained within those cool-looking blue and white embossed tiles.</p> + +<p>The room itself was a curious mixture of the taste of the Leipzig +landlady, who owned and had furnished it, and of the Englishman studying +music, who was its temporary tenant.</p> + +<p>The high-backed sofa, upholstered in red velvet, stood stiffly against +the wall, awaiting the "guest of honour," who never arrived. It <a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a>served, +however, as a resting-place for a violin, and a pile of music; while, on +the opposite side of the room, partly eclipsing a fancy picture of +Goethe, stood a chamber organ, open, and displaying a long row of varied +stops.</p> + +<p>Books and music were piled upon every available flat space, saving the +table; upon which lay the remains of supper.</p> + +<p>Of the three easy chairs placed in a semi-circle near the stove, two +were occupied; but against the empty chair in the centre, its dark brown +polished surface reflecting the glow of the fire, leaned a beautiful old +violoncello. The metal point of its foot made a slight dent in the +parquet floor.</p> + +<p>The younger of the two men sat well forward, elbows on knees, eyes +alight with excitement, intently gazing at the 'cello.</p> + +<p>The other lay back in his chair, his thin sensitive fingers carefully +placed tip to tip, his deep-set eyes scrutinising his companion. When he +spoke his voice was calm and deliberate, his manner exceedingly quiet. +His <a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a>method of conversation was of the kind which drew out the full +confidence of others, while at the same time carefully insinuating, +rather than frankly expressing, ideas of his own.</p> + +<p>"What a rum fellow you must be, West, to pay a hundred and fifty pounds +for an instrument you have no notion of playing. Is it destined to be +kept under lock and key in a glass case?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not," said Ronald West. "I shall be able to play it when I +try; and I shall try as soon as I get home."</p> + +<p>"Give us a sample here."</p> + +<p>"No, not here. I particularly wish to play it first with Helen, in the +room where I told her a 'cello was the instrument I had always wanted. +Oh, I say, isn't it a beauty! Look at those curves, and that wonderful +polish, like the richest brown of the very darkest horse-chestnut you +ever saw in a bursting bur! See how the silver strings shine in the +firelight, against the black ebony of the finger-board! It was made at +Prague, and it is a hundred and fifty years old. I call it the Infant of +Prague."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a>"Why the 'Infant'?"</p> + +<p>"Because you have to be so careful not to bump its head as you carry it +about. Also, isn't there a verse somewhere, about an Infant of Days who +was a hundred years old, and young at that? Helen will love the Infant. +She will polish it with a silk handkerchief, and make a bed for it on +the sofa! I shan't write to her about it. I shall bring it home as a +surprise."</p> + +<p>He took his eyes from the 'cello and looked across at Helen's cousin; +but Aubrey Treherne instantly shifted his gaze to the unconscious +Infant.</p> + +<p>"Tell me how you came across it. There is no doubt you have been +fortunate enough to pick up an instrument of extraordinary value and +beauty."</p> + +<p>"Ah, you realise that?" cried Ronald. "Good! Well, you shall hear +exactly what happened. I arrived here early this morning, put up at a +hotel, and sallied out to interview the publishers. I had a mass of +'copy' to show them, because I have been writing <a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a>incessantly the whole +way home. Curiously enough, since I left Africa, I have scarcely needed +any sleep. Snatches of half an hour seem all I require. It is convenient +when one has a vast amount of work to get through in a short space of +time."</p> + +<p>"Very convenient. Just the reverse of the sleeping sickness."</p> + +<p>"Rather! I was never fitter in my life—as I told Dick Cameron."</p> + +<p>Aubrey Treherne glanced at the bright burning eyes and flushed face—the +feverish blood showing, even through the tan of Africa.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you look jolly fit," he said. "Who is Dick Cameron?"</p> + +<p>"A great chum of mine. We met, as boys in Edinburgh, and were at school +together. He is the son of Colonel Cameron of Transvaal fame, killed +while leading a charge. Dick has done awfully well in the medical, +passed all necessary exams, and taken every possible degree. He is now +looking out for a practice, and meanwhile a big man in London has sent +him out to investigate one of these queer <a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a>water friction +cures—professes to cure cataract and cancer and every known disease, by +simply sitting you in a tub, and rubbing you down with a dish-cloth. +Dick Cameron says—Hullo! Why are we talking of Dick Cameron? I thought +I was telling you about the 'cello."</p> + +<p>"You are telling me about the 'cello," said Aubrey, quietly. "But in +order to arrive at the 'cello we had to hear about your visit to the +publishers with your mass of manuscript, which resulted from having +acquired in Central Africa the useful habit of not needing more than +half an hour of sleep in the twenty-four; which, possibly, Dick Cameron +did not consider sufficient. Doctors are apt to be faddy in such +matters. Whereupon you, naturally, told him you were perfectly fit."</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes, I remember," said Ronnie. "Am I spinning rather a yarn?"</p> + +<p>"Not at all, my dear fellow. Do not hurry. We have the whole evening +before us—night, if necessary. You can put in your half-hour at any +time, I suppose; and I can dispense with sleep for once. It is not often +one has <a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a>the chance of spending a night in the company of a noted +author, an African traveller straight from the jungle, and the man who +has married one's favourite cousin. I am all delighted attention. What +did your friend Dick Cameron say?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I met him as I was hurrying back to the hotel, carrying the +Infant, who did not appear to advantage in the exceedingly plain brown +canvas bag which was all they could give me at Zimmermann's. When I get +home I shall consult Helen, and we shall order the best case +procurable."</p> + +<p>"Naturally. Probably Helen will advise a bassinet by night, and a +perambulator by day."</p> + +<p>Ronnie looked perplexed. "Why a bassinet?" he said.</p> + +<p>"The <i>Infant</i>, you know."</p> + +<p>"Oh—ah, yes, I see. Well, of course I wanted to introduce the Infant +properly to Dick Cameron, but he objected when I began taking it out of +its bag in the street. He suggested that it might take cold—it +certainly <a name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a>is a dank day. Also that there are so many by-laws and +regulations in Leipzig connected with things you may not do in the +streets, that probably if you took a 'cello out of its case and stood +admiring it in the midst of the crowded thoroughfare, you would get run +in by a policeman. Dick said: 'Arrest of the Infant of Prague in the +Streets of Leipzig' would make just the kind of sensational headline +beloved by newspapers. I realised that he was right. It would have +distressed Helen, besides being a most unfortunate way for her to hear +first of the Infant. Helen is a great stickler for respectability."</p> + +<p>Aubrey Treherne's pale countenance turned a shade paler. His thin lips +curved into the semblance of a smile.</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes," he said, "of course. Helen is a great stickler for +respectability. Well? So you gave up undressing your Infant in the +street?"</p> + +<p>Again Ronnie's eager face took on a look of perplexity.</p> + +<p>"I did not propose undressing it," he said.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a>"I only wanted to take it out of its bag."</p> + +<p>"I see. Quite a simple matter. Well? Owing to our absurd police +regulations you were prevented from doing this. What happened next?"</p> + +<p>"Dick suggested that we should go to his rooms. Arrived there he ceased +to take any interest in my 'cello, clapped me into a chair, and stuck a +beastly thermometer into my mouth."</p> + +<p>"Doctors are such enthusiasts," murmured Aubrey Treherne. "They can +never let their own particular trade alone. I suppose he also felt your +pulse and looked at your tongue."</p> + +<p>"Rather! Then he said I had no business to be walking about with a +temperature of 103. I was so much annoyed that I promptly smashed the +thermometer, and we had a fine chase after the quicksilver. You never +saw anything like it! It ran like a rabbit, in and out of the nooks and +corners of the chair, until at last it disappeared through a crack in +the floor; went to ground, you know.<a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a> Doesn't Helen look well on +horseback?"</p> + +<p>"Charming. I suppose you easily convinced your friend that his diagnosis +was rubbish?"</p> + +<p>"Of course I did. I told him I had never felt better in my life. But I +drank the stuff he gave me, simply to save further bother; also another +dose which he brought to the hotel. Then he insisted on leaving a bottle +out of which I am to take a dose every three hours on the journey home. +I did not know old Dick was such a crank."</p> + +<p>"Probably it is the result of sitting in a tub and being scrubbed with a +dish-cloth. Did he know you were coming here?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; he picked up my pocket-book, found your address, and made a note +of it. He said he should probably look us up at about ten o'clock this +evening. I told him I might be here pretty late. I did not know you were +going to be so kind as to fetch my things from the hotel and put me up. +You really are most—"</p> + +<p>"Delighted, my dear fellow. Honoured!"<a name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a> said Aubrey Treherne. "Now tell +me about the finding of the 'cello."</p> + +<p>"I interviewed the publishers, and I hope it is all right. But they +seemed rather hurried and vague, and anxious to get me off the premises. +No doubt I shall fare better in courteous little Holland. Then I went on +to Zimmermann's to choose Helen's organ. I found exactly what she +wanted, and at the price she wished. On my way downstairs I found myself +in a large room full of violoncellos—dozens of them. They were hanging +in glass cases; they were ranged along the top. Then I suddenly felt +impelled to look to the top of the highest cabinet, and there I saw the +Infant! I knew instantly that that was the 'cello I <i>must</i> have. It +seemed mine already. It seemed as if it always had been mine. I asked to +be shown some violoncellos. They produced two or three, in which I took +no interest. Then I said: 'Get down that dark brown one, third from the +end.' They lifted it down, and, from the moment I touched it, I knew it +must be mine! They <a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a>told me it was made at Prague, a hundred and fifty +years ago, and its price was three thousand marks. Luckily, I had my +cheque-book in my pocket, also my card, Helen's card, my publisher's +letter of introduction to the firm here, and my own letter of credit +from my bankers. So they expressed themselves willing to take my cheque. +I wrote it then and there, and marched out with the Infant. I first +called it the Infant on the stairs, as we were leaving Zimmermann's, +because I almost bumped its head! Isn't it a beauty?"</p> + +<p>"Undoubtedly it is."</p> + +<p>"They put on a new set of the very best strings," continued Ronnie; +"supplied me with a good bow, and threw in a cake of rosin."</p> + +<p>"What did you pay for the organ?" inquired Aubrey Treherne.</p> + +<p>"Twenty-four pounds. Helen would not have a more expensive one. She is +always telling me not to be extravagant."</p> + +<p>"That, my dear boy, invariably happens <a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a>to an impecunious fellow who +marries a rich wife."</p> + +<p>Ronnie flushed. "I am impecunious no longer," he said. "During the past +twelve months I have made, by my books, a larger income than my wife's."</p> + +<p>"I can well believe it," said Aubrey, cordially. "But I suppose she can +never forget the fact that, when you married her, she paid your debts."</p> + +<p>Ronald West sprang to his feet.</p> + +<p>"Confound you!" he said, violently. "What do you mean? Helen never paid +my debts! She found them out, I admit; but I paid them every one myself, +with the first cheque I received from my publishers. I demand an +explanation of your statement."</p> + +<p>The other two members of the trio round the stove appeared completely +unmoved by the fury of the young man who had leapt to his feet. The +Infant of Prague leaned calmly against its chair, reflecting the fire in +its polished surface, and pressing its one sharp foot into the parquet. +Aubrey smiled, depre<a name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a>catingly, and waved Ronnie back to his seat.</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow, I am sure I beg your pardon. My cousin certainly gave +her family to understand that she had paid your debts. No doubt this was +not the case. We all know that women are somewhat given to exaggeration +and inaccuracy. Think no more of it."</p> + +<p>Ronnie sat down moodily in his chair.</p> + +<p>"It was unlike Helen," he said, "and it was a lie. I shall find out with +whom it originated. But you are a good fellow to take my word about it +at once. I am obliged to you, Treherne."</p> + +<p>"Don't mention it, West. Men rarely lie to one another. On the other +hand women rarely speak the truth. What will my good cousin say to one +hundred and fifty pounds being paid for a 'cello?"</p> + +<p>"It will be no business of hers," said Ronnie, angrily. "I can do as I +choose with my own earnings."</p> + +<p>"I doubt it," smiled Aubrey Treherne.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></a>"The man who married my cousin Helen, was bound to surrender his +independence and creep under her thumb. I am grateful to you for having +saved me from that fate. As no doubt she has told you, she refused me +shortly before she accepted you."</p> + +<p>Ronald's start of surprise proved at once to Aubrey his complete +ignorance of the whole matter.</p> + +<p>"I had no idea you were ever in love with my wife," he said.</p> + +<p>"Nor was I, my dear fellow," sneered Aubrey Treherne. "Others, besides +yourself, were after your wife's money."</p> + +<p>A sense of impotence seized Ronald, in nightmare grip. Indignant and +furious, he yet felt absolutely unable to contradict or to explain.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he seemed to hear Helen's voice saying earnestly: "My cousin +Aubrey is not a good man, Ronnie; he is not a man you should trust."</p> + +<p>This vivid remembrance of Helen, brought him to his senses.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></a>"I prefer not to discuss my wife," he said, with quiet dignity; "nor my +relations with her. Let us talk of something else."</p> + +<p>"By all means, my dear fellow," replied Aubrey. "You must pardon the +indiscretion of cousinly interest. Tell me of your new book. Have you +settled upon a title?"</p> + +<p>But the instinct of authorship now shielded Ronnie.</p> + +<p>"I never talk of my books, excepting to Helen, until they are finished," +he said.</p> + +<p>"Quite right," agreed Aubrey, cordially. "But you might tell me why this +one took you to Central Africa. Is it a book of travels?"</p> + +<p>"No; it is a love-story. But the scene is laid in wild places—ah, such +places! One cannot possibly understand, until one gets there and does +it, what it is like to leave civilisation behind, and crawl into long +grass thirteen feet high!"</p> + +<p>"It sounds weirdly fascinating," remarked Aubrey. "So unusual a setting, +must mean a remarkable plot."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></a>"It is the strongest thing I have done yet," said Ronnie, with +enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>Aubrey smiled, surveying Ronnie's eager face with slow enjoyment. He was +mentally recalling phrases from reviews he had written for various +literary columns, on Ronnie's work. Already he began wording the terse +sentences in which he would point out the feebleness and lack of +literary merit, in "the strongest thing" Ronnie had done yet. It might +be well to know something more about it.</p> + +<p>"It will be very unlike your other books," he suggested.</p> + +<p>"Yes," explained Ronnie, expanding. "You see they were all absolutely +English; just of our own set, and our own surroundings. I wanted +something new. I couldn't go on letting my hero make love in an English +garden."</p> + +<p>"If you wanted a variety," suggested Aubrey Treherne, "you might have +let him make love in another man's garden. Stolen fruits are sweet! +There is always a fascination about trespassing."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></a>"No, thank you," said Ronnie. "That would be Paradise Lost."</p> + +<p>"Or Paradise Regained," murmured Aubrey.</p> + +<p>"I think not. Besides—Helen reads my books."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see," sneered Aubrey. "So your wife draws the line?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you mean," replied Ronnie. "Falsehood, frailty, and +infidelity, do not appeal to me as subjects for romance. But, if they +did, I certainly should not feel free to put a line into one of my books +which I should be ashamed to see my own wife reading."</p> + +<p>"Oh, safe and excellent standard!" mocked Aubrey Treherne. "No wonder +you go down with the British public."</p> + +<p>"I think, if you don't mind," said Ronald, with some heat, "we will +cease to discuss my books and my public."</p> + +<p>"Then there is but one subject left to us," smiled Aubrey—"the Infant +of Prague! Let us concentrate our attention upon this entirely +<a name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></a>congenial topic. I wonder how long this dear child has remained dumb. I +have seen many fine instruments in my time, West, but I am inclined to +think your 'cello is the finest I have yet come across. Do you mind if I +tune it, and try the strings?"</p> + +<p>Ronnie's pleasure and enthusiasm were easily rekindled.</p> + +<p>"Do," he said. "I am grateful. I do not even know the required notes."</p> + +<p>Aubrey, leaning forward, carefully lifted the instrument, resting it +against his knees. He took a tuning-fork from his pocket.</p> + +<p>"It is tuned in fifths," he said. "The open strings are A, D, G, C. You +can remember them, because they stand for 'Allowable Delights Grow +Commonplace'; or, read the other way up: 'Courage Gains Desired Aims.'"</p> + +<p>With practised skill he rapidly tightened the four strings into harmony; +then, after carefully rosining the bow, rasped it with uncertain touch +across them. The Infant squealed, as if in dire pain. Ronnie winced, +<a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a>obviously restraining himself with an effort from snatching his +precious 'cello out of Aubrey's hands.</p> + +<p>It did not strike him as peculiar that a man who played the violin with +ease, should not be able to draw a clear tone from the open strings of a +'cello.</p> + +<p>"I don't seem to make much of it," said Aubrey. "The 'cello is a +difficult instrument to play, and requires long practice." And again he +rasped the bow across the strings.</p> + +<p>The Infant's wail of anguish gained in volume.</p> + +<p>Ronnie sprang up, holding out eager hands. "Let <i>me</i> try," he said. "It +must be able to make a better sound than that!"</p> + +<p>As he placed the 'cello between his knees, a look of rapt content came +into his face. He slipped his left hand up and down the neck, letting +his fingers glide gently along the strings.</p> + +<p>Aubrey watched him narrowly.</p> + +<p>Ronnie lifted the bow; then he paused. A <a name="Page_87" id="Page_87"></a>sudden remembrance seemed to +arrest the action in mid-air.</p> + +<p>He laid his left hand firmly on the shoulder of the Infant, out of reach +of the tempting strings.</p> + +<p>"I am not going to play," he said. "The very first time I really play, +must be in the studio, and Helen must be there. But I will just sound +the open strings."</p> + +<p>He looked down upon the 'cello and waited, the light of expectation +brightening in his face.</p> + +<p>Aubrey Treherne noted the remarkable correctness of the position he had +unconsciously assumed.</p> + +<p>Then Ronnie, raising the bow, drew it, with unfaltering touch, across +the silver depths of lower C.</p> + +<p>A rich, full note, rising, falling, vibrating, filled the room. The +Infant of Prague was singing. A master-hand had waked its voice once +more.</p> + +<p>Ronnie's head swam. A hot mist was before his eyes. His breath came in +short <a name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></a>sobs. He had completely forgotten the sardonic face of his wife's +cousin, in the chair opposite.</p> + +<p>Then the hot mist cleared. He raised the bow once more, and drew it +across G.</p> + +<p>G merged into D without a pause. Then, with a strong triumphant sweep, +he sounded A.</p> + +<p>The four open strings of the 'cello had given forth their full sweetness +and power.</p> + +<p>"Helen, oh, Helen!" said Ronnie.</p> + +<p>Then he looked up, and saw Aubrey Treherne.</p> + +<p>He laughed, rather unsteadily. "I thought I was at home," he said. "For +the moment it seemed as if I must be at home. I was experiencing the +purest joy I have known since I left Helen. What do you think of my +'cello, man? Isn't it wonderful?"</p> + +<p>"It is very wonderful," said Aubrey Treherne. "Your Infant is all you +hoped. The tone is perfect. But what is still more wonderful is that +you—who believe yourself never to have handled a 'cello before—can set +<a name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></a>the strings vibrating with such unerring skill; such complete mastery. +Of course, to me, the mystery is no mystery. The reason of it all is +perfectly clear."</p> + +<p>"What is the reason of it all?" inquired Ronnie, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"In a former existence, dear boy," said Aubrey Treherne, slowly, "you +were a great master of the 'cello. Probably the Infant of Prague was +your favourite instrument. It called to you from its high place in the +'cello room at Zimmermann's, as it has been calling to you for years; +only, at last, it made you hear. It was your own, and you knew it. You +would have bought it, had its price been a thousand pounds. You could +not have left the place without the Infant in your possession."</p> + +<p>Ronald's feverish flush deepened. His eyes grew more burningly bright.</p> + +<p>"What an extraordinary idea!" he said. "I don't think Helen would like +it, and I am perfectly certain Helen would not believe it."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a>"You cannot refuse to believe a truth because it does not happen to +appeal to your wife," said Aubrey. "Grasp it clearly yourself; then +educate her up to a proper understanding of the matter. All of us who +are worth anything in this world have lived before—not once, nor twice, +but many times. We bring the varied experiences of all previous +existences, unconsciously to bear upon and to enrich this one. Have you +not often heard the expression 'A born musician'? What do we mean by +that? Why, a man born with a knowledge, a sense, an experience, of +music, who does not require to go through the mill of learning all the +rudiments before music can express itself through him, because the soul +of music is in him. He plays by instinct—some folk call it inspiration. +Technical, skill he may have to acquire—his fingers are new to it. The +understanding of notation he may have to master again—the brain he uses +<i>consciously</i> is also of fresh construction. But the sub-conscious self, +the <i>Ego</i> of the man, the real eternal soul of him, leaps back with joy +<a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a>to the thing he has done perfectly before. He is a born musician; just +as John the Baptist was a born prophet, because, into the little body +prepared by Zacharias and Elisabeth, came the great <i>Ego</i> of Elijah +reincarnate; to reappear as a full-grown prophet on the banks of the +Jordan—the very spot from which he had been caught away, his life-work +only half-accomplished, nine centuries before. Even our good Helen, if +she knows her Bible, could hardly question this, remembering Whom it was +Who said: 'If ye will receive it, this <i>is</i> Elijah which was for to +come; and they knew him not, but have done unto him whatsoever they +listed.'"</p> + +<p>"Great Scott!" exclaimed Ronnie. "What a theory! But indeed Helen would +question it; and not only so, but she would be exceedingly upset and +very much annoyed."</p> + +<p>"Then Helen would fully justify the 'If' of the greatest of all +teachers. She would come under the heading of those who refuse to +receive a truth, however clearly and unmistakably expressed."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a>"Lor!" exclaimed Ronnie, in undisguised perplexity. "You have +completely cornered me. But then I never set up for being a theologian."</p> + +<p>"No; you are a born artist and musician. Music, tone, sound, colour, +vibrate in every page of your romances. Had your parents taught you +harmony, the piano, and the fiddle, your music would have burst forth +along its normal lines. As they merely taught you the alphabet and +grammar, your creative faculty turned to literature; you wrote romances +full of music, instead of composing music full of romance. It is a +distinction without a difference. But, now that you have found your +mislaid 'cello, and I am teaching you to KNOW YOURSELF, you will do +both."</p> + +<p>Ronald stared across at Aubrey. His head was throbbing. Every moment he +seemed to become more certain that he had indeed, many times before, +held the Infant of Prague between his knees.</p> + +<p>But there was a weird, uncanny feeling in the room. Helen seemed to walk +in, to seat <a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a>herself in the empty chair; and, leaning forward, to look +at him steadily, with her clear earnest eyes. She seemed to repeat +impressively: "Aubrey is not a good man, Ronnie. He is not a man you +should trust."</p> + +<p>"Well?" asked Aubrey, at last. "Do you recognise the truth?"</p> + +<p>Then, with an effort, Ronnie answered as he believed Helen would have +answered; and her face beside him seemed to smile approval.</p> + +<p>"It sounds a plausible theory," he said slowly; "it may possibly be a +truth. But it is not a truth required by us now. Our obvious duty in the +present is to live this life out to its fullest and best, regarding it +as a time of preparation for the next."</p> + +<p>Aubrey's thin lips framed the word "Rubbish!" but, checking it +unuttered, substituted: "Quite right. This existence <i>is</i> a preparation +for the next; just as that which preceded was a preparation for this."</p> + +<p>Then Ronnie ceased to express Helen, and gave vent to an idea of his +own.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a>"It would make a jolly old muddle of all our relationships," he said.</p> + +<p>"Not at all," replied Aubrey. "It merely readjusts them, compensating +for disappointments in the present, by granting us the assurance of past +possessions, and the expectation of future enjoyment. In the life which +preceded this, Helen was probably <i>my</i> wife, while <i>you</i> were a +beautiful old person in diamond shoe-buckles, knee-breeches, and old +lace, who played the 'cello at our wedding."</p> + +<p>"Confound you!" cried Ronnie, in sudden fury, springing up and swinging +the 'cello above his head, as if about to bring it down, with a crashing +blow, upon Aubrey. "Damned old shoe-buckle yourself! Helen was never +your wife! More likely you blacked her boots and mine!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, hush!" smiled Aubrey, in contemptuous amusement. "Excellent young +men who make innocent love in rose-gardens, never say 'damn.' And in +those days, dear boy, we did not use shoe-blacking. Pray calm yourself, +and sit down. You are up<a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a>setting the internal arrangements of your +Infant. If you swing a baby violently about, it makes it sick. Any old +Gamp will tell you that."</p> + +<p>Ronnie sat down; but solely because his knees suddenly gave way beneath +him. The floor on which he was standing seemed to become deep sand.</p> + +<p>"Keep calm," sneered Aubrey Treherne. "Perhaps you would like to know my +excellent warrant for concluding that Helen was my wife in a former +life? She came very near to being my wife in this. She was engaged to me +before she ever met you, my boy. Had it not been for the interference of +that strong-minded shrew, Mrs. Dalmain, she would have married me. I had +kissed my cousin Helen, as much as I pleased, before you had ever +touched her hand."</p> + +<p>The incandescent lights grew blood-red, leaping up and down, in wild, +bewildering frolic.</p> + +<p>Then they steadied suddenly. Helen's calm, lovely figure, in a shaft of +sunlight, reappeared in the empty chair.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a>Ronnie handed the Infant to her; rose, staggered across the intervening +space, and struck Aubrey Treherne a violent blow on the mouth.</p> + +<p>Aubrey gripped his arms, and for a moment the two men glared at one +another.</p> + +<p>Then Ronnie's knees gave way again; his feet sank deeply into the sand; +and Aubrey, forcing him violently backward, pinned him down in his +chair.</p> + +<p>"I would kill you for this," he whispered, his face very close to +Ronnie's; blood streaming from his lip. "I would kill you for this, you +clown! But I mean to kiss Helen again; and life, while it holds that +prospect, is too sweet to risk losing for the mere pleasure of wiping +you out. Otherwise, I would kill you now, with my two hands."</p> + +<p>Then a black pulsating curtain rolled, in impenetrable folds, between +Ronnie and that livid bleeding face, and he sank +away—down—down—down—into silent depths of darkness and of solitude.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h3> + +<h4>AUBREY PUTS DOWN HIS FOOT</h4> + + +<p>Ronnie's first sensation as he returned to consciousness, was of extreme +lassitude and exhaustion.</p> + +<p>His eyelids lifted heavily; he had some difficulty in realising where he +was.</p> + +<p>Then he saw his 'cello, leaning against a chair; and, a moment later, +Aubrey Treherne, lying back in the seat opposite, enveloped in a cloud +of tobacco smoke.</p> + +<p>"Hullo, West!" said Aubrey, kindly. "You put in your half-hour quite +unexpectedly. You were trying, in a sleepy fashion, to tell me how you +came to purchase this fine 'cello; but you dropped off, with the tale +unfinished."</p> + +<p>Ronnie looked in silence at his wife's cousin.</p> + +<p>"Are you the better for your sleep?"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a>"I am fagged out," said Ronnie, wearily.</p> + +<p>Aubrey went to a cupboard, poured something into a glass, and handed it +to Ronald.</p> + +<p>"Drink this, my boy. It will soon wake you up."</p> + +<p>Ronnie drank it. Its tint was golden, its odour, fragrant; but +otherwise, for aught he knew, it might have been pure water.</p> + +<p>He sat up and took careful note of his surroundings.</p> + +<p>Then an idea seemed to strike him. He leaned forward and twanged the +strings of his 'cello. They were not in tune.</p> + +<p>"Will you lend me your tuning-fork?" he said to Aubrey.</p> + +<p>But Aubrey had expected this.</p> + +<p>"Sorry," he said. "I don't possess one, just now. I gave away mine last +week. You can tune your 'cello by the organ."</p> + +<p>"I don't know how to tune a 'cello," said Ronnie.</p> + +<p>"Let me show you," suggested Aubrey, with the utmost friendliness.</p> + +<p>He walked over to the organ, drew out the<a name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a> 'cello stop, sounded a note, +then came back humming it.</p> + +<p>Then he took up the Infant and carefully tuned the four strings, talking +easily meanwhile.</p> + +<p>"You see? You screw up the pegs—so. The notes are A, D, G, C."</p> + +<p>"What have you done to your lip?" said Ronald, suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Knocked it on the stove just now, as I bent to stoke it with my +fingers, for fear of waking you. It bled amazingly."</p> + +<p>Aubrey produced a much-stained handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"It is curious how a tiny knock will sometimes draw as much blood as a +sword-thrust. There! The Infant is in perfect tune, so far as I can tell +without the bow. Do you mind if I just pass the bow across the strings? +After each string is perfectly tuned to a piano or organ, you must make +them vibrate together in order to get the fifths perfect. A violin or a +'cello is capable of a more complete condition of intuneness—if I <a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a>may +coin a word—than an organ or a piano."</p> + +<p>He took up the bow, then with careful precision sounded the strings, +singly and together. The beautiful open notes of the Infant of Prague, +filled the room.</p> + +<p>"There," said Aubrey, putting it back against the empty chair. "I am +afraid that is all I must attempt. I only play the fiddle. I might +disappoint you in your Infant if I did more than sound the open +strings."</p> + +<p>Ronald passed his hand over his forehead. "When did I fall asleep?" he +asked.</p> + +<p>"Just after suggesting that we should not discuss your books or your +public."</p> + +<p>"Ah, I remember! Treherne, I have had the most vivid and horrid +nightmares."</p> + +<p>"Then forget them," put in Aubrey, quickly. "Never recount a nightmare, +when it is over. You suffer all its horrors again, in the telling. Turn +your thoughts to something pleasant. When do you reach England?"</p> + +<p>"I cross by the Hook, the day after to-morrow, reaching London early the +following <a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a>morning. I shall go to my club, see my publisher, lunch in +town, and get down home to tea."</p> + +<p>"To the moated Grange?" inquired Aubrey.</p> + +<p>"Yes, to the Grange. Helen will await me there. But why do you call it +'moated'? We do not boast a moat."</p> + +<p>Aubrey laughed. "I suppose my thoughts had run to 'Mariana.' You +remember? 'He cometh not,' she said; the young woman who grew tired of +waiting. They do, sometimes, you know! I believe <i>her</i> grange was +moated. All granges should be moated; just as all old manors should be +haunted. What a jolly time you and Helen must have in that lovely old +place. I knew it well as a boy."</p> + +<p>"You must come and stay with us," said Ronnie, with an effort.</p> + +<p>"Thanks, dear chap. Delighted. Has Helen kept well during your absence?"</p> + +<p>"Quite well. She wrote as often as she could, but there was a beastly +long time <a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a>when I could get no letters. Hullo!—I say!"</p> + +<p>Ronnie stood up suddenly, the light of remembrance on his thin face, and +began plunging his hands into the many pockets of his Norfolk coat.</p> + +<p>"I found a letter from Helen at the <i>Poste Restante</i>, here; but owing to +my absorption in the Infant, I clean forgot to read it! Heaven send I +haven't dropped it anywhere!"</p> + +<p>He stood with his back to the stove, hunting vaguely, but feverishly, in +all his pockets.</p> + +<p>Aubrey smoked on, watching him without stirring.</p> + +<p>Aubrey was wishing that Helen could know how long her letter had +remained unread, owing to the Infant of Prague.</p> + +<p>At length Ronnie found the letter—a large, square foreign +envelope—safely stowed away in his pocket-book, in the inner +breast-pocket of his coat.</p> + +<p>"Of course," he said. "I remember. I put it there when I was writing +Zimmermann's cheque. You will excuse me if I read it <a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a>straight away? +There may be something requiring a wire."</p> + +<p>"Naturally, my dear fellow; read it. Cousins need not stand on ceremony; +and the Infant now being thoroughly in tune, your mind is free to spare +a thought or two to Helen. Don't delay another moment. There may be a +message in the letter for me."</p> + +<p>Ronnie drew the thin sheets from the envelope in feverish haste.</p> + +<p>As he did so, a folded note fell from among them unseen by Ronnie, and +dropped to the floor close to Aubrey's foot.</p> + +<p>Ronnie began reading; but black spots danced before his eyes, and +Helen's beautiful clear writing zig-zagged up and down the page.</p> + +<p>Presently his vision cleared a little and he read more easily.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he laughed, a short, rather mirthless, laugh.</p> + +<p>"What's up?" inquired Aubrey Treherne.</p> + +<p>"Oh, nothing much; only I suppose I'm in for a lecture again! Helen +says: 'Ron<a name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></a>ald'—" Ronnie lifted his eyes from the paper. "What a +nuisance it is to own that kind of name. As a small boy I was always +'Ronnie' when people were pleased, and 'Ronald' if I was in for a +wigging. The feeling of it sticks to you all your life."</p> + +<p>"Of course it does," said Aubrey sympathetically. "Beastly hard lines. +Well? Helen says 'Ronald'—?"</p> + +<p>Ronnie's eyes sought the paper again; but once more the black spots +danced in a wild shower. He rubbed his eyes and went on reading.</p> + +<p>"'Ronald, I shall have something to tell you when you get home, which +will make a great difference to this Christmas, and to all +Christmas-times to come. I will not put it into a letter. I will wait +until you are here, and I can say it.'"</p> + +<p>"What can it be?" questioned Aubrey.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know," said Ronnie, unsteadily—the floor was becoming soft and +sandy again. "I have heard it all before. She always thinks me +extravagant at Christmas, and objects <a name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></a>to her old people being given +champagne and other seasonable good things. I have heard—heard it—all +before. There was no need to write about it. And when she—when she says +it, I shall jolly well tell her that a—that a—a fellow can do as he +likes with his own earnings."</p> + +<p>"I should," said Aubrey Treherne.</p> + +<p>Ronald went on reading, in silence.</p> + +<p>Aubrey's eye was upon the folded sheet of paper on the floor.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Ronnie said: "Hullo! I'm to have it after all! Listen to this. +'P.S.—On second thoughts, now you are so nearly home, I would rather +you knew what I have to say, before your return; so I am enclosing with +this a pencil note I wrote some weeks ago. <i>Ronnie, we will have a +Christmas-tree this Christmas</i>.' Well, I never!" said Ronnie. "That's +not a very wild thing in the way of extravagance, is it? But it's a +concession. I have wanted a Christmas-tree each Christmas. But Helen +said you couldn't have a Christmas-tree in a home where there <a name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></a>were no +kids; it was absurd for two grownup people to give each other a +Christmas-tree. Now, where is—" He began searching in the empty +envelope.</p> + +<p>With a quick stealthy movement, Aubrey put his foot upon the note.</p> + +<p>"It is not here," said Ronnie, shaking out the thin sheets one by one, +and tearing open the envelope. "She has forgotten it, after all. Well—I +should think it will keep. It can hardly have been important."</p> + +<p>"Evidently," remarked Aubrey, "third thoughts followed second thoughts. +Even Helen would scarcely put a lecture on economy into a welcome-home +letter."</p> + +<p>"No, of course not," agreed Ronnie, and walked unsteadily to his chair.</p> + +<p>Aubrey, stooping, transferred the note from beneath his foot to his +pocket.</p> + +<p>Ronald read his letter through again, then turned to Aubrey.</p> + +<p>"Look here," he said. "I must send a wire. Helen wants to know whether I +wish her to meet me in town, or whether I would <a name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a>rather she waited for +me at home. What shall I say?"</p> + +<p>Aubrey Treherne rose. "Think it over," he said, "while I fetch a form."</p> + +<p>He left the room.</p> + +<p>He was some time in finding that form.</p> + +<p>When he returned his face was livid, his hand shook.</p> + +<p>Ronald sat in absorbed contemplation of the Infant.</p> + +<p>"It appears more perfect every time one sees it," he remarked, without +looking at Aubrey.</p> + +<p>Aubrey handed him a form for foreign telegrams, and a fountain pen.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to say to—to your wife?" he asked in a low voice.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Ronnie, vaguely. "What a jolly pen! What am I to do +with this?"</p> + +<p>"You are to let Helen know whether she is to meet you in town, or to +wait at the Grange."</p> + +<p>"Ah, I remember. What do you advise,<a name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></a> Treherne? I don't seem able to +make plans."</p> + +<p>"I should say most decidedly, let her wait for you at home."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I think so too. I shall be rushing around in town. I can get home +before tea-time. How shall I word it?"</p> + +<p>"Why not say: <i>Owing to satisfactory news in letter, prefer to meet you +quietly at home. All well.</i>"</p> + +<p>Ronnie wrote this at Aubrey's dictation; then he paused.</p> + +<p>"What news?" he asked, perplexed at the words he himself had written.</p> + +<p>"Why—that Helen is quite well. Isn't that satisfactory news?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course. I see. Yes."</p> + +<p>"Then you might add: <i>Will wire train from London.</i>"</p> + +<p>"But I know the train now," objected Ronnie. "I have been thinking of it +for weeks! I shall catch the 3 o'clock express."</p> + +<p>"Very well, then add: <i>Coming by 3 o'clock train. Home to tea.</i>"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></a>Ronnie wrote it—a joyous smile on his lips and in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"It sounds so near," he said. "After seven long months—it sounds so +near!"</p> + +<p>"Now," said Aubrey, "give it to me. I will take it out for you. I know +an office where one can hand in wires at any hour."</p> + +<p>"You <i>are</i> a good fellow," said Ronnie gratefully.</p> + +<p>"And now look here," continued Aubrey. "Before I go, you must turn into +bed, old chap. You need sleep more than you know. I can do a little +prescribing myself. I am going to give you a dose of sleeping stuff +which brought me merciful oblivion, after long nights of maddening +wakefulness. You will feel another man, when you wake in the morning. +But I am coming with you to the Hague. I can tend the Infant, while you +go to the publishers. I will see you safely on board at the Hook, on the +following evening, and next day you will be at home. After all those +months alone in the long grass, you <a name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></a>don't want any more solitary +travelling. Now come to bed."</p> + +<p>Ronnie rose unsteadily. "Aubrey," he said, "you are a most awfully good +fellow. I shall tell Helen. She will—will—will be so—so grateful. I'm +perfectly all right, you know; but other people seem so—so busy, +and—and—so vague. You will help me to—to—to—arrest their attention. +I must take the Infant to bed."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," said Aubrey; "we will find a cosy place for the Infant. If +Helen were here she would provide a bassinet. Don't forget that joke. It +will amuse Helen. I make you a present of it. <i>If Helen were here she +would provide a bassinet and a pram for the Infant of Prague</i>."</p> + +<p>Ronnie laughed. "I shall tell Helen you said so." Then, carrying the +'cello, he lurched unsteadily through the doorway. The Infant's head had +a narrow escape.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Aubrey Treherne sent off the telegram. He required to alter only one +word.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></a>When it reached Helen, the next morning at breakfast, it read thus: +<i>Owing to astonishing news in letter prefer to meet you quietly at home. +All well. Coming by 3 o'clock train. Home to tea</i>.—<i>Ronald</i>.</p> + +<p>Helen suffered a sharp pang of disappointment. She had expected +something quite different. The adjective "astonishing" seemed strangely +cold and unlike Ronnie. She had thought he would say "wonderful," or +"unbelievable," or "glorious."</p> + +<p>But before she had finished her first cup of coffee, she had reasoned +herself back into complete content. Ronnie, in an unusual fit of +thoughtfulness, had remembered her feeling about the publicity of +telegrams. She had so often scolded him for putting "darling" and "best +of love" into messages which all had to be shouted by telephone from the +postal town, into the little village office which, being also the +village grocery store, was a favourite rendezvous at all hours of the +day for village gossips.</p> + +<p>It was quite unusually considerate of<a name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></a> Ronnie to curb the glowing words +he must have longed to pour forth. The very effort of that curbing, had +reduced him to a somewhat stilted adjective.</p> + +<p>So Helen finished her lonely breakfast with thoughts of glad +anticipation. Ronnie's return was drawing so near. Only two more +breakfasts without him. At the third she would be pouring out his +coffee, and hearing him comment on the excellence of Blake's hot +buttered toast!</p> + +<p>Then, with a happy heart, she went up to the nursery.</p> + +<p>Yet—unconsciously—the pang remained.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h3> + +<h4>A FRIEND IN NEED</h4> + + +<p>As Aubrey Treherne, on his way back from despatching the telegram, stood +in the general entrance hall, fumbling with the latch-key at the door of +his own flat, a tall young man in an ulster dashed up the wide stone +stairs, rapidly read the names on the various brass plates, and arrived +at Aubrey's just as his door had yielded to persuasion and was admitting +him into his own small passage.</p> + +<p>"Hullo," said a very British voice. "Do you happen to be Ronald West's +wife's cousin?"</p> + +<p>Aubrey turned in the doorway, taking stock of his interlocutor. He saw a +well-knit, youthful figure, a keen resourceful face, and a pair of +exceedingly bright brown eyes, unwavering in the steady penetration of +their <a name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a>regard. Already they had taken him in, from top to toe, and were +looking past him in a rapid investigation of as much of his flat as +could be seen from the doorway.</p> + +<p>Aubrey was caught!</p> + +<p>He had fully intended muffling his electric bell, and not being at home +to visitors.</p> + +<p>But this brisk young man, with an atmosphere about him of always being +ten minutes ahead of time, already had one of his very muddy boots +inside the door, and eagerly awaited the answer to his question; so it +was useless to reply to the latter in German, and to bang the former.</p> + +<p>Therefore: "I have that honour," replied Aubrey, with the best grace he +could muster.</p> + +<p>"Ah! Well, I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I must have a word with +you; and then I am going round to spend the night with Ronnie at his +hotel."</p> + +<p>"Come in," said Aubrey, in a low voice; "but we must not talk in the +passage or we shall wake him. I saw he was not fit to be alone, so I +sent to the hotel for his traps, and <a name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></a>am putting him up here. He turned +in, half an hour ago, and seemed really inclined to sleep. He was almost +off, when I left him."</p> + +<p>Aubrey, closing the door, led the way to his sitting-room, where the +three easy chairs were still drawn up before the stove.</p> + +<p>"I conclude you are Dr. Cameron," said Aubrey, turning up the light, and +motioning his visitor to the chair which had lately been Ronnie's.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I am Dick Cameron, Ronnie's particular chum; and if ever he needed +a particular chum, poor old chap, he does so at this moment. But I am +glad he has found a friend in you, and one really able to undertake him. +You did right not to leave him at the hotel; and he must not travel back +to England alone."</p> + +<p>"I have already arranged to accompany him," said Aubrey Treherne.</p> + +<p>"Good; it will save me a journey."</p> + +<p>Dick pulled off his ulster, threw it across the red velvet sofa, flung +his cap after it, and took the proffered chair.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></a>In his blue serge suit and gay tie, he looked like the captain of a +college football team.</p> + +<p>Aubrey, eyeing him with considerable reserve and distaste, silently took +up his position in the chair opposite. He felt many years older than +this peremptory young man, who appeared to consider himself master of +all situations.</p> + +<p>Dick turned his bright eyes on to the empty chair between them.</p> + +<p>"So Ronnie has spent the evening with you?"</p> + +<p>"He has."</p> + +<p>"Who was the third party?"</p> + +<p>"The third party was the Infant of Prague."</p> + +<p>"Oh, bother that rotten Infant!" exclaimed Dr. Dick. "I came near to +putting my foot through its shining tummy this morning! Still it may +serve its silly use, if it takes his mind off his book, until we can get +him safely home. I suppose you know, sir, that Ronald West is about as +ill as a man can be? It will be touch and go whether we can get him home +before the crash comes."</p> + +<p>"I thought he seemed excited and unwell,"<a name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></a> said Aubrey. "What do you +consider is the cause of his condition?"</p> + +<p>"Well, the bother is, we can't exactly tell. But I should say he has +been letting himself in for constant exposure to extreme heat by day, +and to swampy dampness by night; not taking proper food; living in a +whirl of excited imagination with no rational companionship to form an +outlet; and, on the top of all this, contracted some malarial germ, +which has put up his temperature and destroyed the power of natural +sleep. This condition of brain has enabled him to work practically night +and day at his manuscript, and I have no doubt he has written brilliant +stuff, which an enchanted world will read by-and-by, with no notion of +the price which has been paid for their pleasure and edification. But +meanwhile, unless proper steps are taken to avert disaster, our friend +Ronnie will be, by then, unable to understand or to enjoy his triumph."</p> + +<p>Aubrey's lean face flushed. "I hope you are taking an exaggerated view," +he said.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></a>"I hope you understand," retorted Dr. Dick, "that I am doing nothing of +the kind. I cannot tell you precisely what course the illness will run; +the nuisance of these African jungle poisons is that we know precious +little about them. But I have known Ronnie since he and I were at school +together, and any poison goes straight to his brain. If he gets +influenza, he never sneezes and snuffles like an ordinary mortal, but +walks about, more or less light-headed, all day; and lies dry awake, +staring at the ceiling all night."</p> + +<p>"What do you recommend in this case?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, there we arrive at my reason for coming to you. <i>I</i> don't know +Ronnie's wife. I conclude <i>you</i> do."</p> + +<p>"She is my first cousin. I have known her intimately all her life."</p> + +<p>"Can you write to her to-night, and mail the letter so that it will +reach her before he arrives home?"</p> + +<p>"I have every intention of doing so."</p> + +<p>Dick Cameron sat forward, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Good! It will come better from you than <a name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></a>from a total stranger. No +doubt I am known to her by name; but we have never chanced to meet. +Without alarming her too much, I want you to make Ronnie's condition +quite clear to her. Tell her he must be kept absolutely quiet and happy +on his return; and, with as little delay as may be, she must have the +best advice procurable."</p> + +<p>"Whom would you recommend?"</p> + +<p>"To be quite honest, I am afraid a brain specialist. But I will give you +the name of a man who has also made a special study of the conditions +caused by malarial fever, and exposure to tropical heat."</p> + +<p>Dick produced a note-book, wrote down a name and address, tore out the +leaf, and handed it to Aubrey.</p> + +<p>"There! You can't do better than that. Of course it is everything that +you are taking him right home. But, even so, let your letter get there +first. You might have difficulty in seeing Mrs. West alone, and mischief +might be done in a moment, which you would be powerless to prevent. Tell +her, that above <a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></a>all else, she must avoid any sort of shock for him. A +violent emotion of any kind would probably send him clean off his head."</p> + +<p>"I am sure you are right, there," said Aubrey. "He suddenly became +violent to-night, while we were talking about his 'cello; got up, +staggered across, and struck me on the mouth."</p> + +<p>Dr. Dick's keen eyes were instantly bent upon Aubrey Treherne in +perplexed scrutiny.</p> + +<p>Aubrey shifted uncomfortably in his seat; then rose and put fuel into +the stove.</p> + +<p>Still Dick sat silent.</p> + +<p>When Aubrey resumed his seat, Dick spoke—slowly, as if carefully +weighing every word.</p> + +<p>"Now that is peculiar," he said. "Ronnie's mental condition is a +perfectly amiable one, unless anything was said or done to cause him +extreme provocation. In fact, he would not be easily provoked. He is +inclined rather to take a maudlinly affectionate and friendly view of +things and people; to be very simply, almost childishly, pleased with +the last new idea. That wretched Infant of <a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a>his is a case in point. I +should be glad if you would tell me, sir, what happened in this room +just before Ronnie hit out."</p> + +<p>"Merely a conversation about the 'cello," replied Aubrey, hurriedly. "A +perfectly simple remark of mine apparently annoyed him. But I soon +pacified him. He was obviously not responsible for his actions."</p> + +<p>"He was obviously in a frenzy of rage," remarked Dr. Dick, drily; "and +he caught you a good one on the mouth. Did he apologise afterwards?"</p> + +<p>"He fell asleep," said Aubrey, "and appeared on awaking to have +absolutely forgotten the occurrence."</p> + +<p>Dick got up, put his hands in his pockets, walked over to the organ, +and, bending down, examined the stops. He whistled softly to himself as +he did so.</p> + +<p>Aubrey, meanwhile, had the uncomfortable sensation that the whole scene +with Ronnie was being re-acted, with Dick Cameron as an interested +spectator.</p> + +<p>It tried Aubrey's nerves.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></a>"I do not wish to hurry you," he suggested presently. "But if I am to +post my letter to my cousin before midnight, the sooner I am able to +write it, the better."</p> + +<p>Dick turned at once and took up his ulster.</p> + +<p>Aubrey, relieved, came forward cordially to lend him a hand.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," said Dr. Dick. "A man should always get into his coat +unaided. In so doing, he uses certain muscles which are exercised in no +other way."</p> + +<p>He swung himself into the heavy coat, and stood before Aubrey +Treherne—very tall, very grave, very determined.</p> + +<p>"You quite understand, sir, that if you were not yourself taking Ronnie +home, I should do so? And if, by any chance, you are prevented from +going, just let me know, and I can be packed and ready to start home +with him in a quarter of an hour."</p> + +<p>"Very good of you," said Aubrey, "but all our plans are made. We reach +the Hague to-morrow night. He requires a day there <a name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></a>for making his +translation and publishing arrangements. So we sleep at the Hague +to-morrow, crossing by the Hook of Holland on the following evening. I +have wired to the Hôtel des Indes for a suite. I feel sure my cousin +would wish him to have the best of everything, and to be absolutely +comfortable and quiet. At the Hôtel des Indes they have an excellent +orchestra, and a particularly fine 'cellist. West will enjoy showing him +the Infant. They can compare babies! It will keep him amused and +interested all the evening."</p> + +<p>"Good idea," agreed Dr. Dick. "But Ronnie need not come down on his wife +for his hotel expenses! He is making a pot of money himself, now. You +will be careful to report to Mrs. West exactly what I have said of his +condition?"</p> + +<p>"I will write immediately. As we stay a night <i>en route</i>, and another is +taken up in crossing, my cousin should receive my letter twenty-four +hours before our arrival."</p> + +<p>"Impress upon her," said Dr. Dick, ear<a name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></a>nestly, "how dangerous any mental +shock might be."</p> + +<p>"Do you fear brain fever?" questioned Aubrey.</p> + +<p>Dick laughed. "Brain fever is a popular fiction," he said. "It is not a +term admitted by the faculty. If you mean meningitis—no, I trust not. +But probably temporary loss of memory, and a complete upsetting of +mental control; with a possible impairing, for a considerable time, of +his brilliant mental powers."</p> + +<p>"In other words, my cousin's husband is threatened with insanity."</p> + +<p>"Lor, no!" exclaimed Dick, with vehemence. "How easily you good people +hand a fellow-creature over to that darkest of all fates! Ronnie's +condition is brought about by temporary circumstances which are not in +the least likely to have permanent results. He has always had the +eccentricity of genius; but, since his genius has been recognised, +people have ceased to consider him eccentric. Now I must be off. But I +will see him first. Will you show me his room?"<a name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></a> "He is asleep," +objected Aubrey. "Is it not a pity to disturb him?"</p> + +<p>"I doubt his being asleep," replied Dick. "But if he is, we shall not +wake him."</p> + +<p>He stepped into the passage, his attitude one of uncompromising +determination.</p> + +<p>Aubrey Treherne opened the door of Ronnie's room. It was in darkness. He +stepped back into the passage, lighted a candle, handed it to Dick +Cameron, and they entered quietly together.</p> + +<p>Ronnie lay on his back, sleeping heavily. His eyes were partly open, his +face flushed, his breathing rapid. One arm was flung out toward a chair +beside the bed, on which lay his pocket-book, his watch, and a small +leather miniature-case containing a portrait of Helen. This lay open +upon the watch, having evidently fallen from his fingers. A candle had +burned down into the socket, and spluttered itself out.</p> + +<p>Dick picked up the miniature, held it close to the light of his own +candle, and examined it critically.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></a>"He certainly went in for beauty," he remarked in a low voice to Aubrey +Treherne, as he laid the miniature beside the pocket-book. "Of course +Ronnie would. But it is also a noble face—a face one could altogether +trust. Ronnie will be in safe hands when once you get him home."</p> + +<p>Aubrey's smile, in the flare of the candle, was the grin of a hungry +wolf. He made no reply.</p> + +<p>Dr. Dick, watch in hand, stood silently beside the bed, counting the +rapid respiration of his friend. Then he turned, took up an empty +tumbler from the table behind him, smelt it, and looked at Aubrey +Treherne.</p> + +<p>"I thought so," he said. "You meant well, no doubt. But don't do it +again. Drugs to produce sleep may occasionally be necessary, but should +only be given under careful medical supervision. Personally, I am +inclined to think that any sort of artificial sleep does more harm to a +delicately poised brain, than insomnia. However, opinions differ. But +there is no question that your <a name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></a>experiment of to-night must not be +repeated. I have given him stuff to take during his homeward journey +which will tend to calm him, lessen the fever, and clear his mind. See +that he takes it."</p> + +<p>Young Dick Cameron walked out of Ronnie's room, blew out the candle he +carried, and replaced the candlestick on a little ornamental bracket.</p> + +<p>Aubrey followed, inwardly fuming.</p> + +<p>If Dick had been at the top of the tree, the first opinion procurable +from Harley Street, W., his manner could hardly have been more +authoritative, his instructions more peremptory.</p> + +<p>"Upstart!" said Aubrey to himself. "Insolent Jackanapes!"</p> + +<p>When Dick Cameron reached the outer door his cap was on the back of his +head, his hands were thrust deep into his coat pockets.</p> + +<p>"Good-evening," he said. "Excuse my long intrusion. I shall be immensely +obliged if you will let me have a wire reporting your safe arrival, and +a letter, later on, with details <a name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></a>as to Ronnie's state. I put my address +on the paper I gave you just now, with the name of the man Mrs. West +must call in."</p> + +<p>Dick crossed the great entrance-hall, and ran lightly down the stone +steps.</p> + +<p>Aubrey heard the street door close behind him.</p> + +<p>Then he shut and double locked his own flat.</p> + +<p>"Upstart!" he said. "Jackanapes! Insolent fool!"</p> + +<p>It is sometimes consoling to call people that which you know they are +not, yet heartily wish they were.</p> + +<p>Aubrey entered his sitting-room. He wanted an immediate vent for his +ill-humour and sense of impotent mortification.</p> + +<p>The leaf from Dick's note-book lay on the table.</p> + +<p>Aubrey took it up, opened the iron door of the stove, and thrust the +leaf into the very heart of the fire.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h3> + +<h4>PARADISE LOST</h4> + + +<p>Aubrey Treherne sat at his writing-table, his head buried in his hands.</p> + +<p>Before him lay the closely-written sheets of his letter to Helen; beside +them her pencil note which had fallen, unnoticed by Ronnie, from her +letter to him.</p> + +<p>Presently Aubrey lifted his head. His face bore traces of the anguish of +soul through which he had been passing.</p> + +<p>A man who has yielded himself to unrestrained wrong-doing, suffers with +a sharpness of cold misery unknown to the brave true heart, however hard +or lonely may be his honourable way.</p> + +<p>Before finally reading his own letter to Helen, Aubrey read again her +pathetic note to her husband.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></a>"Ronnie, my own!</p> + +<p>"Excuse pencil and bad writing. Nurse has propped me up in bed, but not +so high as I should like.</p> + +<p>"Darling, I am not ill, only rather weak, and very, very happy.</p> + +<p>"Ronnie, I must write to you on this first day of being allowed a +pencil, though I shall not, of course, yet send the letter. In fact, I +daresay I shall keep it, and give it to you by-and-by. But you will like +to feel that I wrote at once.</p> + +<p>"Darling, how shall I tell you? Beside me, in your empty place, as I +write, lies your little son—our own baby-boy, Ronnie!</p> + +<p>"He came three days ago.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Ronnie, it is so wonderful! He is <i>so</i> like you; though his tiny +fingers are all pink and crinkled, and his palms are like little +sea-shells. But he is going to have your artistic hands. When I cuddle +them against my neck, the awful longing and loneliness of these past +months seem wiped out.<a name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></a> But only because he is yours, darling, and +because I know you are soon coming back to him and to me.</p> + +<p>"I could not tell you before you went, because I know you would have +felt obliged to give up going, and your book is so important; and I have +not told you since, because you must not have anything to worry you +while so far away. Also I was glad to bear it alone, and to save you the +hard part. One soon forgets the hardness, in the joy.</p> + +<p>"Jane was with me.</p> + +<p>"We are sending no announcement to the papers, for fear you should see +it on the way home. Very few people know.</p> + +<p>"Our little son will be six weeks old, when you get back. I shall be +quite strong again.</p> + +<p>"I hope you will be able to read this tiny writing. Nurse would only +give me one sheet of paper!</p> + +<p>"His eyes are blue. His little mouth is just like yours. I kiss it, but +it doesn't kiss back! He is a darling, Ronnie, but—he isn't you!</p> + +<p><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></a>"Come back soon, to your more than ever loving wife,</p> + +<p class="author">"HELEN.</p> + +<p>"Yes, the smudgy places <i>are</i> tears, but only because I am rather weak, +and so happy."</p> + +<p>Crossing the first page came a short postscript, in firmer hand-writing:</p> + + +<p>"After all I am sending this to Leipzig. I daren't not tell you before +you arrive. I sometimes feel as if I had done something wrong! Tell me, +directly you take me in your arms, that I did right, and that you are +glad. I am down, as usual, now, and baby is quite well."</p> + +<p>Aubrey's hands shook as he folded the thin paper, opened a drawer, +pushed the letter far into it, and locked the drawer.</p> + +<p>Then, with set face, he turned to his own letter to Ronald West's wife.</p> + + +<p>"My own Beloved—</p> + +<p>"Yes, I call you so still, because you <i>were</i><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></a> mine, and <i>are</i> mine. You +threw me over, giving me no chance to prove that my love for you had +made me worthy—that I would have been worthy. You sent me into outer +darkness, where there was wailing and gnashing of teeth; where the worm +of remorse dies—never. But, through it all, I loved you still. I love +you to-night, as I never loved you before. The whole world is nothing to +me, excepting as the place on which you walk.</p> + +<p>"I have seen the man—- the selfish, self-absorbed fool—on whom you +threw yourself away, six months after you had cast me adrift. At this +moment he is my guest, snoring in an adjoining room while I sit up +writing to you.</p> + +<p>"He has spent the evening talking of nothing but himself, his journey, +his wonderful book—the strongest thing he has done yet, etc., etc., +etc.; till I could have risen up and strangled him with my two hands. +Oh, Helen—my lovely one—he is altogether unworthy of you! I saw a +letter of yours <a name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></a>long ago, in which you said he was like a young +sun-god. Handsome he is, I admit. He says he has never felt fitter in +his life, and he looks it. But surely a woman wants more than mere +vitality and vigour and outward beauty of appearance? Heart—he has +none. The wonderful news in your letter has left him unmoved. He thinks +more of a 'cello he has just bought than he does of your little son. +When I remonstrated with him, he rose up and struck me on the mouth. But +I forgave him for your sake, and he now sleeps under my roof.</p> + +<p>"Helen, he <i>must</i> have disappointed you over and over again. He will +continue to disappoint you.</p> + +<p>"Helen, you loved me once; and when a woman loves once, she loves for +always.</p> + +<p>"Helen, if he could leave you alone during seven months, in order to get +local scenery for a wretched manuscript, he will leave you again, and +again, and yet again. He married you for your money; he has practically +admitted it to me; but now that he is <a name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></a>making a yearly income larger +than your own, he has no more use for you.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my beloved—my queen—my only Love—don't stay with a man who is +altogether unworthy of you! If a man disappoints a woman she has a right +to leave him. He is not what she believed him to be; that fact sets her +free. If you had found out, afterwards, that he was already married to +another, would you not have left him? Well, he <i>was</i> already wedded to +himself and to his career. He had no whole-hearted devotion to give to +you.</p> + +<p>"Helen, don't wait for his return. Directly you get this come out here +to me. Bring your little son and his nurse. My flat will be absolutely +at your disposal. I can sleep elsewhere; and I swear to you I will never +stay one moment after you have bid me go. As soon as West has set you +legally free, we can marry and travel abroad for a couple of years; +then, when the whole thing has blown over, go back to live in the old +house so dear to us both.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></a>"Helen, you will have twenty-four hours in which to get away before he +returns. But even if you decide to await his return, it will not be too +late. His utter self-absorption must give you a final disillusion.</p> + +<p>"See if his first words to you are not about his cursèd 'cello, rather +than about his child and yours.</p> + +<p>"If so, treat him with the silent contempt he deserves, and come at once +to the man who won you first and to whom you have always belonged; come, +where tenderest consideration and the worship of a lifetime await you.</p> + +<p>"Yours till death—- and after,</p> + +<p class="author">"AUBREY TREHERNE."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h3> + +<h4>THE PINNACLE OF THE TEMPLE</h4> + + +<p>Aubrey's letter fell upon Helen as a crushing, stunning blow.</p> + +<p>At first her womanhood reeled beneath it.</p> + +<p>"What have I been—what have I done," she cried, "that a man dares to +write thus to me?"</p> + +<p>Then her wifehood rose up in arms as she thought of Ronnie's gay, boyish +trust in her; their happy life together; his joyous love and laughter.</p> + +<p>She clenched her hands.</p> + +<p>"I could <i>kill</i> Aubrey Treherne!" she said.</p> + +<p>Then her motherhood arose; and bowing her proud head, she burst into a +passion of tears.</p> + +<p>At length she stood up and walked over to the window.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></a>"It will be bad for my little son if I weep," she said, and smiled +through her tears.</p> + +<p>The trees were leafless, the garden beds empty. The park looked sodden, +dank and cheerless. Summer was long dead and over, yet frosts had not +begun, bringing suggestions of mistletoe and holly.</p> + +<p>But the mists were lifting, fading in white wreaths from off the grass; +and, at that moment, the wintry sun, bursting through the November +clouds, shone on the diamond panes, illumining the cross and the motto +beneath it.</p> + +<p>"<i>In hoc vince!</i>" murmured Helen. "As I told my own dear boy, the path +of clear shining is the way to victory. <i>In hoc signo vinces!</i> I will +take this gleam of sunlight as a token of triumph. By the help of God, I +will write such an answer to Aubrey as shall lead him to overcome his +evil desires, and bring his dark soul out into the light of repentance +and confession."</p> + +<p>The same post had brought her a short letter from Ronnie, written +immediately on his arrival at Leipzig, evidently before receiving <a name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></a>hers. +It was a disappointment to have nothing more. As Aubrey had got a letter +through after hearing the news, Ronnie might have done the same.</p> + +<p>But perhaps, face to face with her wonderful tidings, words had +altogether failed him. He feared to spoil all he would so soon be able +to say, by attempting to write.</p> + +<p>To-morrow—the day which should bring him to her—would soon be here.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile her reply to Aubrey must be posted to-day, and his letter +consigned to the flames.</p> + +<p>Feeling unable to go to the nursery with that letter unanswered, she sat +down at once and wrote to her cousin.</p> + + +<p>"I only read your letter, Aubrey, half an hour ago. I am answering it at +once, because I cannot enter the presence of my little son, with such a +letter as yours still in my possession. As soon as I have answered it I +shall burn it.</p> + +<p>"I may then be able to rise above the <a name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></a>terrible sense of shame which +completely overwhelmed me at first, at the thought that any man—above +all a man who knew me well—should dare to write me such a letter!</p> + +<p>"At first my whole soul cried out in horror: 'What am I? What have I +been? What have I done—that such words should be written—such a +proposition made—to me?' The sin of it seemed to soil me; the burning +wickedness, to brand me. I seemed parted from my husband and my child, +and dragged down with you into your abyss of outer darkness.</p> + +<p>"Then, into my despair, sacred words were whispered for my comfort. 'He +was in all points tempted, like as we are, <i>yet without sin</i>,' and, +through my shame and tears, I saw a vision of the Holy One, standing +serene and kingly on the pinnacle of the temple, where, though the devil +dared to whisper the fiendish suggestion: 'Cast Thyself down,' He stood +His ground without a tremor—tempted, yet unsoiled.</p> + +<p>"So—with this vision of my Lord before <a name="Page_141" id="Page_141"></a>me—I take my stand, Aubrey +Treherne, upon the very summit of the holy temple of wifehood and +motherhood, and I say to you: 'Get thee gone, Satan!' You may have bowed +my mind to the very dust in shame over your wicked words, but you cannot +cause my womanhood to descend one step from off its throne.</p> + +<p>"This being so, poor Aubrey, I feel able to forgive you the other great +wrong, and to try to find words in which to prove to you the utter +vileness of the sin, and yet to show you also the way out of your abyss +of darkness and despair, into the clear shining of repentance, +confession, and forgiveness.</p> + +<p>"As regards the happenings of the past, between you and me—you state +them wrongly. I did not love you, Aubrey, or I would never have sent you +away. I could have forgiven anything to an honest man, who had merely +failed and fallen.</p> + +<p>"But you had lived a double life; you had deceived me all along the +line. I had loved the man I thought you were—the man you <a name="Page_142" id="Page_142"></a>had led me to +believe you were. I did not love the man I found you out to be.</p> + +<p>"I could not marry a man I did not love. Therefore, I sent you away. +There was no question then of giving you, or not giving you, a chance to +prove yourself worthy. I was not concerned just then with what you might +eventually prove yourself. I did not love you; therefore, I could not +wed you. Though, as a side issue, it is only fair to point out—if you +wish to stand upon your possible merits—that this letter, written four +years later, confirms my then estimate of your true character.</p> + +<p>"Aubrey, I cannot discuss my husband with you; nor can I bring myself to +allude to the subject of my relations with him, or his with me.</p> + +<p>"To defend him to you would be to degrade him in all honest eyes.</p> + +<p>"To enlarge upon my love for him, would be like pouring crystal water +into a stagnant polluted pool, in order to prove how pure was the +fountain from which that water flowed.<a name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></a> Nothing could be gained by such +a proceeding. Pouring samples of its purity into the tainted waters of +the pool, would neither prove the former, nor cleanse the latter.</p> + +<p>"But, in order to free my own mind from the poison of your suggestions +and the shame of the fact that they were made to me, I must answer, in +the abstract, one statement in your letter. Please understand that I +answer it completely in the abstract. You have dared to apply it to my +husband and to me. I do not admit that it applies. But, even if it did, +I should not let it pass unchallenged. I break a lance with you, Aubrey +Treherne, and with all men of your way of thinking, on behalf of every +true wife and mother in Christendom!</p> + +<p>"You say, that if a man has disappointed his wife, she has a right to +leave him; the fact of that disappointment sets her free?</p> + +<p>"I say to you, in answer: when a woman loves a man enough to wed him, he +becomes to her as her life—her very self.</p> + +<p>"I often fail, and fall, and disappoint <a name="Page_144" id="Page_144"></a>myself. I do not thereupon +immediately feel free to commit suicide. I face my failure, resolve to +do better, and take up my life again, as bravely as may be, on higher +lines.</p> + +<p>"If a woman leaves her husband she commits moral suicide. By virtue of +his union with her, he is as her own self. If disappointment and +disillusion come to her through him, she must face them as she does when +they come through herself. She must be patient, faithful, understanding, +tender; helping him, as she would help herself, to start afresh on +higher ground; once more, with a holy courage, facing life bravely.</p> + +<p>"This is my answer—every true woman's answer—to the subtle suggestions +of your letter.</p> + +<p>"I admit that often marriages turn out hopeless—impossible; mere +prisons of degradation. But that is when the sacred tie is entered into +for other than the essential reasons of a perfect love and mutual need; +or without due consideration, 'unadvisedly, lightly, wantonly,' +notwithstanding the<a name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></a> Church's warning. Or when people have found out +their mistake in time, yet lacked the required courage to break their +engagement, as I broke off mine with you, Aubrey; thus saving you and +myself a lifetime of regret and misery.</p> + +<p>"Oh, cannot you see that the only real 'outer darkness' is the doing of +wrong? Disappointment, loss, loneliness, remorse—all these may be hard +to bear, but they can be borne in the light; they do not necessarily +belong to the outer darkness.</p> + +<p>"May I ask you, as some compensation for the pain your letter has given +me, and the terrible effort this answer has cost, to bear with me if, in +closing, I quote to you in full the final words of the first chapter of +the first epistle of St. John? I do so with my heart full of hope and +prayer for you—yes, even for you, Aubrey. Because, though <i>my</i> words +will probably fail to influence you, God has promised that <i>His</i> Word +shall never return unto Him void.</p> + +<p>"'If we walk in the light, as He is in the <a name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></a>light, we have fellowship +one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us +from all sin.... If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to +forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'</p> + +<p>"Oh, Aubrey, act on this! It is true.</p> + +<p>"Your cousin, who still hopes better things of you, and who will not +fail in thought and prayer,</p> + +<p class="author">"HELEN WEST."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></a></p> +<h2><a name="Part_III" id="Part_III"></a>Part III</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /><p><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></a></p><p><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h3> + +<h4>RONNIE ARRIVES IN A FOG</h4> + + +<p>Ronnie reached Liverpool Street Station at 8 o'clock on a foggy November +morning.</p> + +<p>After the quiet night on the steamer, the landing in darkness at +Harwich, and the steady run up to town, alone in a first-class +compartment, he felt momentarily confused by the noise and movement +within the great city terminus.</p> + +<p>The brilliant lights of the station, combined with the yellow fog +rolling in from the various entrances; the onward rush of many feet, as +hundreds of busy men and eager young women poured out of suburban +trains, hurrying to the scenes which called for their energy during the +whole of the coming day; the gliding in and out of trains, the passing +to <a name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></a>and fro of porters, wheeling heavy luggage; the clang of milk-cans, +the hoot of taxi-cabs, and, beyond it all, the distant roar of London, +awaking, and finding its way about heavily, like an angry old giant in +the fog—all seemed to Ronnie to be but another of the queer nightmares +which came to him now with exhausting frequency.</p> + +<p>As a rule, he found it best to wait until they passed off. So, holding +the Infant of Prague in its canvas case in one hand, and the bag +containing his manuscript in the other, he stood quite still upon the +platform, waiting for the roar to cease, the rush to pass by, the +nightmare to be over.</p> + +<p>Presently an Inspector who knew Ronnie walked down the platform. He +paused at once, with the ready and attentive courtesy of the London +railway official.</p> + +<p>"Any luggage, Mr. West?" he asked, lifting his cap.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," replied Ronnie, "not to-day."</p> + +<p>He knew he had luggage somewhere—<a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a>heaps of it. But what was the good of +hunting up luggage in a nightmare? Dream luggage was not worth +retrieving. Besides, the more passive you are, the sooner the delusion +leaves off tormenting you.</p> + +<p>"Have you come from the Hook, sir?" inquired the inspector.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Ronnie. "Did you think I had come from the Eye?"</p> + +<p>He knew it was a vile pun, but it seemed exactly the sort of thing one +says in a nightmare.</p> + +<p>The inspector laughed, and passed on; then returned, looking rather +searchingly at Ronnie.</p> + +<p>Ronnie thought it well to explain further. "As a matter of fact, my +friend," he said, "I have come from Central Africa, where I have been +sitting round camp-fires, in company with asps and cockatrices, and +other interesting creatures. I am writing a book about it—the best +thing I have done yet."</p> + +<p>The inspector had read and enjoyed all Ronnie's books. He smiled +uneasily. Asps and cockatrices sounded queer company.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></a>"Won't you have a cup of coffee, sir, before going out into the fog?" +he suggested.</p> + +<p>"Ah—good idea!" said Ronnie; and made his way to the refreshment room.</p> + +<p>It was empty at this early hour, and quiet. All the people with rushing +feet and vaguely busy faces had breakfasted at a still earlier hour, in +their own cosy homes. Their wives had made their coffee. To-morrow Helen +would pour out his coffee. It seemed an almost unbelievably happy +thought. How came such rapture to be connected with coffee?</p> + +<p>He spent a minute or two in deciding at which of the many little marble +tables he would sit. He never remembered being offered so large or so +varied a choice at Liverpool Street Station before. You generally made a +dash for the only empty table you saw, usually close to the door. That +was like Hobson's choice—this or none! A stable of forty good steeds, +always ready and fit for travelling, but the customer must take the +horse which stood nearest to the door!</p> + +<p><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></a>Well, to-day he had the run of the stable. Forty good marble tables! +Which should he choose?</p> + +<p>The young women behind the counter watched him with interest as he +wandered about, carefully examining each table and sitting down +tentatively at several. At last he chose the most central, as being the +furthest removed from Hobson's choice; sat down, took the Infant out of +its bag, and, screwing in its pointed foot, leaned it up against another +chair at the table.</p> + +<p>Then he found that one of the young women had come from behind the +counter, and was standing at his elbow, patiently awaiting his pleasure.</p> + +<p>He ordered a cup of coffee and a roll and butter, for himself; a glass +of milk and a sponge-cake for the Infant.</p> + +<p>Just after these were served, before he had had time to drink the +steaming hot coffee, the friendly inspector arrived, accompanied by +another railway official. They said they had come to make sure Ronnie +had <a name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></a>found what he wanted in the refreshment room.</p> + +<p>Ronnie thanked them for their civility, and showed them the Infant.</p> + +<p>They looked at it with surprise and interest; but nudged one another +when they noticed the glass of milk and the sponge-cake, which Ronnie +had carefully pushed across to the Infant's side of the table.</p> + +<p>Then they saluted, and went out.</p> + +<p>Left alone, Ronnie drank his coffee.</p> + +<p>It instantly cleared his brain of the after-effects of the sleeping +draught which Aubrey had insisted upon giving him just before the +steamer sailed the night before. His surroundings ceased to appear +dream-like. A great wave of happiness swept over him.</p> + +<p>Why, he was in London again! He was almost at home! If he had let Helen +meet him, she might have been sitting just opposite, at this little +marble table!</p> + +<p>He looked across and saw the unconscious Infant's glass of milk and +sponge-cake. He drew them hurriedly towards him. He felt <a name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></a>suddenly +ashamed of them. It was possible to carry a joke too far in public. He +knew Helen would say: "Don't be silly, Ronnie!"</p> + +<p>He particularly disliked milk, and was not fond of sponge-cakes; but he +hastily drank the one and ate the other. He could think of no other way +of disposing of them. He hoped the young women who were watching him +from behind the counter, would think he enjoyed them.</p> + +<p>Then he called for a whisky and soda, to take out the exceedingly +beastly taste of the milk; but instantly remembered that old Dick had +said: "Touch no alcohol," so changed the order to another cup of coffee.</p> + +<p>This second instalment of coffee made him feel extraordinarily fit and +vigorous.</p> + +<p>He put the Infant back into its bag.</p> + +<p>The inspector returned.</p> + +<p>"We have found your luggage, Mr. West," he said. "If we may have your +keys we can get it out for you."</p> + +<p>"Ah, do!" said Ronnie. "Many thanks. Put it on a taxi. I shall leave it +at my Club.<a name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a> I am afraid I was rather vague about it just now; but I had +been given a sleeping draught on board, and was hardly awake when I got +out of the train. I am all right now. Thanks for your help, my good +fellow."</p> + +<p>The inspector looked relieved.</p> + +<p>Ronnie paid his bill, took up the 'cello, handed his bag to the +inspector, and marched off gaily to claim his luggage.</p> + +<p>He felt like conquering the world! The fog was lifting. The roar of the +city sounded more natural. He had an excellent report to make to his +publisher, heaps of "copy" to show him, and then—he was going home to +Helen.</p> + +<p>In the taxi he placed the Infant on the seat beside him.</p> + +<p>On the whole he felt glad he had told Helen not to meet him at the +station. It was so much more convenient to have plenty of room in the +taxi for his 'cello. It stood so safely on the seat beside him, in its +canvas bag.</p> + +<p>As they sped westward he enjoyed looking <a name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></a>out at the fog and mud and +general wintry-aspect of London.</p> + +<p>He did not feel cold. Aubrey had persuaded him to buy a magnificent +fur-coat at the Hague. He had lived in it ever since, feeling gorgeous +and cosy. Aubrey's ideas of spending money suited him better than +Helen's.</p> + +<p>His taxi glided rapidly along the greasy Embankment. Once it skidded on +the tramlines, and Ronnie laid a steadying hand upon the 'cello.</p> + +<p>The grey old Thames went rolling by—mighty, resistless, perpetually +useful—right through the heart of busy London.</p> + +<p>Ronnie thought of the well-meaning preacher who pointed out to his +congregation, as an instance of the wonderful over-rulings of an +All-wise Providence, the fact that large rivers flowed through great +cities, and small streams through little villages! Ronnie laughed very +much at the recollection of this story, and tried to remember whether he +had ever told it to Helen.</p> + +<p>Arrived at his club he shaved, tubbed, <a name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></a>changed his clothes, and, +leaving his 'cello in charge of the hall porter, sallied out with his +manuscript to call upon his publisher.</p> + +<p>In his portmanteau he had found Dr. Dick's bottle of stuff to take on +the journey. Aubrey had persuaded him to pack it away. He now took a +dose; then slipped the bottle into the pocket of his fur coat.</p> + +<p>All went well, during the rest of the morning. His publisher was neither +pre-occupied nor vague. He gave Ronnie a great reception and his full +attention.</p> + +<p>In the best of spirits, and looking the bronzed picture of perfect +health, Ronnie returned to his club, lunched, showed his 'cello to two +or three friends, then caught the three o'clock train to Hollymead.</p> + +<p>The seven months were over. All nightmares seemed to have cleared away. +He was on his way to Helen. In an hour and a half he would be with her!</p> + +<p>He began to wonder, eagerly, what Helen would say to the Infant.</p> + +<p>He felt quite sure that as soon as he got <a name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></a>the bow in his hand, and the +'cello between his knees, the Infant would have plenty to say to Helen.</p> + +<p>He had kept his yearning to play, under strong control, so that she +might be there to enjoy with him the wonderful experience of those first +moments.</p> + +<p>As the train slowed up for Hollymead, and the signal lights of the +little wayside station appeared, Ronnie took the last dose of Dick's +physic, and threw the bottle under the seat.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h3> + +<h4>THE MIRAGE</h4> + + +<p>Helen awaited in her sitting-room the return of the carriage.</p> + +<p>It had been a great effort to let it go to the station without her. In +fact she had ordered it to the front door, and put on her hat and coat +in readiness.</p> + +<p>But at the last minute it had seemed impossible to meet Ronnie on a +railway platform.</p> + +<p>So she sent the brougham off without her, went upstairs, put on a soft +trailing gown specially admired by Ronnie, paused at the nursery to make +sure all was quiet and ready, then came down to her sitting-room, and +tried to listen for a sound other than the beating of her own heart.</p> + +<p>The room looked very home-like and cosy. A fire crackled gaily on the +hearth. The <a name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></a>winter curtains were drawn; the orange lampshades cast a +soft golden light around.</p> + +<p>The tea-table stood ready—cups and plates for two. The firelight shone +on the embossed brightness of the urn and teapot.</p> + +<p>Ronnie's favourite low chair was ready for him.</p> + +<p>The room seemed in every detail to whisper, "Home"; and the woman who +waited knew that the home within her heart, yearning to receive and +welcome and hold him close, after his long, long absence from her, was +more tender, more beautiful, more radiant, than outward surroundings +could possibly be made.</p> + +<p>No word save the one telegram had come from Ronnie since her letter to +Leipzig. But she knew he had been desperately busy; and, with the +home-coming so near, letters would have seemed to him almost impossible.</p> + +<p>He could not know how her woman's heart had yearned to have him say at +once: "I am glad, and you did right."</p> + +<p>Her nervousness increased, as the hour for the return of the carriage +drew near.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></a>She wished she could be sure of having time to run up again to the +nursery with final instructions to Nurse. Supposing baby woke, just as +the carriage arrived, and the first sound Ronnie heard was the hungry +wailing of his little son!</p> + +<p>Passing into the hall, she stood listening at the foot of the stairs.</p> + +<p>All was quiet on the upper landing.</p> + +<p>She returned to the sitting-room, and rang the bell.</p> + +<p>"Simpkins," she said to her butler, "listen for the carriage and be at +the door when it draws up. It may arrive at any moment now. Tell Mr. +West I am in here."</p> + +<p>She sat down, determined to wait calmly; took up the paper and tried to +read an article on foreign policy. It was then she discovered that her +hands were trembling.</p> + +<p>She laughed at herself, and felt better.</p> + +<p>"Oh, what will Ronnie think of me! That I, of all people, should +unexpectedly become nervous!"</p> + +<p>She walked over to the fireplace and saw <a name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></a>reflected in the mirror over +the mantel-piece, a very lovely, but a very white, face. She did not +notice the loveliness, but she marked the pallor. It was not reassuring.</p> + +<p>She tried to put another log on to the fire, but failed to grip it +firmly with the little brass tongs, and it fell upon the rug. At that +moment she heard the sharp trot of the horses coming up the last sweep +of the park drive.</p> + +<p>She flung the log on to the fire with her fingers, flew to the door and +set it open; then returned to the table and stood leaning against it, +her hands behind her, gripping the edge, her eyes upon the doorway. +Ronnie would have to walk the whole length of the room to reach her. +Thus she would see him—see the love in his eyes—before her own were +hidden.</p> + +<p>She heard Simpkins cross the hall and open the door.</p> + +<p>The next moment the horses' hoofs pounded up the drive, and she heard +the crunch of the wheels coming to a standstill on the wet gravel.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></a>A murmur from Simpkins, then Ronnie's gay, joyous voice, as he entered +the house.</p> + +<p>"In the sitting-room? Oh, thanks! Yes, take my coat. No, not this. I +will put it down myself."</p> + +<p>Then his footstep crossing the hall.</p> + +<p>Then—Ronnie filled the doorway; tall, bronzed, radiant as ever! She had +forgotten how beautiful he was. And—yes—the love in his eyes was just +as she had known it would be—eager, glowing.</p> + +<p>She never knew how he reached her; but she let go the table and held out +her arms. In a moment he was in them, and his were flung around her. His +lips sought hers, but her face was hidden on his breast. She felt his +kisses in her hair.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Helen!" he said. "Helen! Why did I ever go!"</p> + +<p>She held him closer still, sobbing a little.</p> + +<p>"Darling, we both thought it right you should go. And—you didn't know."</p> + +<p>"No," he agreed rather vaguely, "of course I didn't know." He thought +she meant that <a name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></a>he had not known how long the parting would seem, how +insistent would be the need of each other. "I should not have gone, if I +had known," he added, tenderly.</p> + +<p>"I knew you wouldn't, Ronnie. But—I was all right."</p> + +<p>"Of course you were all right. You know, you said we were a healthy +couple, so I suppose there was no need to worry or to expect anything +else. Was there? All the same I <i>did</i> worry—sometimes."</p> + +<p>She waited for more.</p> + +<p>It did not come. Ronnie was kissing her hair again.</p> + +<p>"Were you glad when you had my letter, Ronnie?" she asked, very low.</p> + +<p>"Which letter, sweet? I was always glad of every letter."</p> + +<p>"Why, the last—the one to Leipzig."</p> + +<p>"Ah, of course! Yes, I was very glad. I read it in your cousin's flat. I +had just been showing him—oh, Helen! That reminds me—darling, I have +something to show you! Such a jolly treasure—such a surprise! I <a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a>left +it in the hall. Would you like me to fetch it?"</p> + +<p>He loosed his arms and she withdrew from them, looking up into his +glowing face.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Ronnie," she said. "Why, certainly. Do fetch it."</p> + +<p>He rushed off into the hall. He fumbled eagerly with the buckles of the +canvas bag. It had never taken so long, to draw the precious Infant +forth.</p> + +<p>He held it up to the hall lights. He wanted to make sure that it was +really as brown and as beautiful as it had always seemed to him.</p> + +<p>Yes, it was as richly brown as the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw +in a bursting bur!</p> + +<p>He walked back into the sitting-room, carrying it proudly before him.</p> + +<p>Helen had just lighted the spirit-lamp beneath the swinging kettle on +the brass stand. Her face was rather white again.</p> + +<p>"Here it is, Helen," he said. "The most beautiful 'cello you ever saw! +It is one hundred and fifty years old. It was made <a name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></a>at Prague. I paid a +hundred and fifty pounds for it."</p> + +<p>Helen looked.</p> + +<p>"That was a good deal to pay for a 'cello," she said, yet conscious as +she spoke that—even as Peter on the Mount—she had made the remark +chiefly because she "wist not what to say."</p> + +<p>"Not a bit!" said Ronnie. "A chap in the orchestra at the Hague, with a +fine 'cello of his own, told me he had never in his life handled such a +beauty. He considered it a wonderful bargain."</p> + +<p>"It <i>is</i> a beauty," said Helen, pouring hot water from the urn into the +teapot, with a hand which trembled.</p> + +<p>Ronnie wheeled a third chair up to the low tea-table, opposite his own +particular seat, leaned his 'cello up against it, sat down, put his +elbows on his knees, and glowed at it with enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>"I knew you would say so, darling. Ever since I bought it, after +choosing your organ at Zimmermann's, I have been thinking of the <a name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></a>moment +when I should show it to you; though an even greater moment is coming +for us soon, Helen."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Ronnie."</p> + +<p>"Look how the two silver strings shine in the firelight. I call it the +Infant of Prague."</p> + +<p>"Why the 'Infant'?"</p> + +<p>"Because it is a hundred and fifty years old; and because you have to be +so careful not to bump its head, when you carry it about."</p> + +<p>Helen put her hand to her throat.</p> + +<p>"I think it is a foolish name for a violoncello," she said, coldly.</p> + +<p>"Not at all," explained Ronnie. "It seems to me more appropriate every +day. My 'cello is the nicest infant that ever was; does what it's told, +gives no trouble, and only speaks when it's spoken to!"</p> + +<p>Helen bent over the kettle. It was boiling. She could hear the water +bubbling; the lid began making little tentative leaps. Without lifting +her eyes, she made the tea.</p> + +<p>Ronnie talked on volubly. It was so <a name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></a>perfect to be back in his own +chair; to watch Helen making tea; and to have the Infant safely there to +show her.</p> + +<p>Helen did not seem quite so much interested or so enthusiastic as he had +expected.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he remembered Aubrey's joke.</p> + +<p>Helen at that moment was handing him his cup of tea. He took it, +touching her fingers with his own as he did so; a well-remembered little +sign between them, because the first time it had dawned upon Helen that +Ronnie loved her, and wanted her to know it, was on a certain occasion +when he had managed to touch her fingers with his, as she handed him a +cup of tea.</p> + +<p>He did so now, smiling up at her. He was so happy, that things were +becoming a little dream-like again; not a nightmare—that would be +impossible with Helen so near—but an exquisite dream; a dream too +perfectly beautiful to be true.</p> + +<p>"Darling," he said, "I brought the Infant home in a canvas bag. We must +have a proper case made for it. Aubrey said <i>you</i><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></a> would probably want +to put it into a bassinet! I suppose he thought your mind would be +likely to run on bassinets. But the Infant always reminds me of the +darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur; so I intend to +have a case of polished rosewood made for it, lined with white velvet."</p> + +<p>Helen laughed, wildly.</p> + +<p>"I have not the smallest desire, Ronald, to put your 'cello into a +bassinet!" she said.</p> + +<p>It dawned upon Ronnie that Helen was not pleased.</p> + +<p>"It was a silly joke of Aubrey's. I told him so. I said I should tell +you <i>he</i> said it, not I. Let's talk of something else."</p> + +<p>He turned his eyes resolutely from the 'cello, and told her of his +manuscript, of the wonderful experiences of his travels, his complete +success in finding the long grass thirteen feet high, and the weird, +wild setting his plot needed.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he became conscious that Helen was not listening. She sat +gazing into the fire; her expression cold and unresponsive.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></a>Ronnie's heart stood still. Never before had he seen that look on +Helen's face. Were his nightmares following him home?</p> + +<p>For the first time in his life he had a sense of inadequacy. Helen was +not pleased with him. He was not being what she wanted.</p> + +<p>He fell miserably silent.</p> + +<p>Helen continued to gaze into the fire.</p> + +<p>The Infant of Prague calmly reflected the golden lamplight in the +wonderful depths of its polished surface.</p> + +<p>Suddenly an inspiration came to Ronnie. Brightness returned to his face.</p> + +<p>He stood up.</p> + +<p>"Darling," he said, "I told you that an even greater moment was coming +for us."</p> + +<p>She rose also, and faced him, expectant.</p> + +<p>He put out his hand and lifted the Infant.</p> + +<p>"Helen, let's go to the studio, where I first told you I felt sure I +could play a 'cello. We will sit there in the firelight as we did on +that last evening, seven months ago, and you shall hear me make the +Infant sing, for the very first time."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></a>Then the young motherhood in Helen, arose and took her by the throat.</p> + +<p>"Ronald!" she said. "You are utterly, preposterously, altogether, +selfish! I am ashamed of you!"</p> + +<p>They faced each other across the table.</p> + +<p>Every emotion of which the human soul is capable, passed over Ronnie's +countenance—perplexity, amazement, anger, fury; grief, horror, dismay.</p> + +<p>She saw them come and go, and come again; then, finally, resolve into a +look of indignant misery.</p> + +<p>At last he spoke.</p> + +<p>"If that is your opinion, Helen," he said, "it is a pity I ever returned +from the African jungle. Out there I could have found a woman who would +at least have given me a welcome home."</p> + +<p>Then his face flamed into sudden fury. He seized the cup from which he +had been drinking, and flung up his hand above his head. His upper lip +curled back from his teeth, in an angry snarl.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a>Helen gazed at him, petrified with terror.</p> + +<p>His eyes met hers, and he saw the horror in them. Instantly, the anger +died out of his. He lowered his hand, carefully examined the pattern on +the cup, then replaced it gently in the saucer.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," he said. "I ought not to have said that—about +another woman. There is but <i>one</i> woman for me; and, welcome or no +welcome, there is but one home."</p> + +<p>Then he turned from her, slowly, deliberately, taking his 'cello with +him. He left the room, without looking back. She heard him cross the +hall, pause as if to pick up something there; then pass down the +corridor leading to the studio.</p> + +<p>Listening intently, she heard the door of the studio close; not with a +bang—Ronnie had banged doors before now—but with a quiet +irrevocability which seemed to shut her out, completely and altogether.</p> + +<p>Sinking into the chair in which she had awaited his coming with so much +eagerness of anticipation, Helen broke into an uncontrollable paroxysm +of weeping.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h3> + +<h4>A FRIEND IN DEED</h4> + + +<p>Precisely how long she remained alone in her sitting-room, Helen never +knew; but it cannot have been the long hours it seemed, seeing that +Simpkins did not appear to fetch the tea-tray, nor did Nurse send down +any message from the nursery.</p> + +<p>Helen had wept herself into the calm of exhaustion, and was trying to +decide what her next move should be, when the hoot of a motor sounded in +the park. In another moment she heard it panting at the door. Then the +bell pealed.</p> + +<p>With the unfailing instinct of her kind, to hide private grief and show +a brave front to the world, Helen flew to the mirror, smoothed her +tumbled hair, put away her damp handkerchief; and, standing calmly +<a name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a>beside the mantel-piece, one foot on the fender, awaited her unexpected +visitor.</p> + +<p>She heard voices in the hall, then Simpkins opened the door and tried to +make an announcement, but some unseen force from behind whirled him +away, and a broad-shouldered young man in an ulster, travel-stained and +dishevelled, appeared in his stead, shut the door upon Simpkins, and +strode into the lamplight, his cloth cap still on the back of his head, +his keen dark eyes searching Helen's face eagerly.</p> + +<p>His cap came off before he spoke to her; but, with his thick, +short-cropped hair standing on end, a bare head only added to the +wildness of his appearance.</p> + +<p>He stopped when he reached the tea-table.</p> + +<p>"Where's Ronnie?" he said, and he spoke as if he had been running for +many miles.</p> + +<p>"My husband is in the studio," replied Helen, with gentle dignity.</p> + +<p>"What's he doing?"</p> + +<p>"I believe he is playing his 'cello."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></a>"Oh, lor! That wretched Infant! Is he all right?"</p> + +<p>"So far as I know."</p> + +<p>"What time did he get here?"</p> + +<p>"At half-past four."</p> + +<p>The dishevelled young man glanced at the clock.</p> + +<p>"Oh, lor!" he said again. "To think I've travelled night and day and +raced down from town in a motor to get here first, and he beat me by an +hour and a half! However, if he's all right, no harm's done."</p> + +<p>He dropped into Ronnie's chair, and rumpled his hair still further with +his hands.</p> + +<p>"I must try to explain," he said.</p> + +<p>Then he lifted a rather white, very grubby face to Helen's. His lips +twitched.</p> + +<p>"I'm dry," he said; and dropped his face into his hands.</p> + +<p>Helen rang the bell.</p> + +<p>"Bring whisky and soda at once," she ordered, the instant Simpkins +appeared in the doorway.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></a>Then she crossed over, and laid her hand lightly on her visitor's broad +shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Don't try to explain," she said kindly, "until you have had something. +I am sure I know who you are. You appear in all sorts of cricket and +football groups in Ronnie's dressing-room. You are Ronnie's special +chum, Dick Cameron."</p> + +<p>Dick did not lift his head. As a matter of fact, at that moment he could +not. But, though his throat contracted, so that speech became +impossible, in his heart he was saying: "What a woman! Lor, what a +woman! Ninety-nine out of a hundred would have offered me tea—and tea +that had stood an hour; and the hundredth would have sent for a +policeman! But she jumps instantly to whisky and soda; and then walks +across and makes me feel at home. Eh, well! We shall save old Ronnie +between us."</p> + +<p>She administered the whisky and soda when it appeared; sitting gently +beside him, in exceeding friendliness.</p> + +<p>The rugged honesty of the youth appealed <a name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></a>to her. His very griminess +seemed but an earnest of his steadfast purpose, and suited her present +mood of utter disillusion with the artistic and the beautiful.</p> + +<p>Dick's look of keen alertness, his sense of forceful vigour, soon +returned to him.</p> + +<p>He stood up, surveyed himself in the glass, then turned with a rueful +smile to Helen.</p> + +<p>"It was both kind and brave of you, Mrs. West," he said, "not to send +for a policeman."</p> + +<p>Helen laughed. "I think I know an honest man when I see him, Dr. Dick. +You must let me use the name by which I have always heard of you. Now, +can you explain more fully?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly," said Dick, getting out of his ulster, and sitting down. +"But I must begin by asking a few more questions. Did you get your +cousin's letter yesterday morning? It was absolutely essential you +should receive it before Ronnie reached home. I hoped you would act upon +it at once."</p> + +<p>Helen gazed at him, aghast.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></a>"I did receive my cousin's letter," she said.</p> + +<p>"Was it quite explicit, Mrs. West?"</p> + +<p>"It was absolutely explicit."</p> + +<p>"Ah! Then on that point I admit I have wronged him. But you must excuse +me if I say that I am inclined to consider your cousin a liar and a +scoundrel."</p> + +<p>Helen's face was white and stern. "I am afraid I have long known him to +be both, Dr. Dick."</p> + +<p>"Then you will not wonder that when I found he was not keeping his word +to me, and bringing Ronnie home, I dashed off in pursuit."</p> + +<p>"Was there ever any question of his returning with my husband?"</p> + +<p>It was Dick's turn to look perplexed.</p> + +<p>"Of course there was. In fact, he gave me his word in the matter. I +mistrusted him, however, and the more I thought it over, the more uneasy +I grew. Yesterday morning, the day he was to have crossed with Ronnie, I +called at his flat and found he was expected back there to-day. I should +dearly have <a name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></a>liked to wait and wring his neck on arrival, but naturally +Ronnie's welfare came first. I could not catch the night boat at the +Hague, but I dashed off via Brussels, crossed from Boulogne this +morning, reached London forty minutes too late for the 3 o'clock train +to Hollymead. There was no other until five, and that a slow one. So I +taxied off to a man I know in town who owns several cars, borrowed his +fastest, and raced down here, forty miles an hour. Even then I got here +too late. However, no harm has been done. But you will understand that +prompt action was necessary. What on earth was your cousin's little +game?"</p> + +<p>"It is quite inexplicable to me," said Helen, slowly, "that you should +have any knowledge of my cousin's letter. Also, you have obviously been +prompt, but I have not the faintest idea why prompt action was +necessary."</p> + +<p>"Didn't your cousin give you my message?"</p> + +<p>"Your name was not mentioned in his letter."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></a>"Did he tell you of Ronnie's critical condition?"</p> + +<p>"He said Ronnie told him he had never felt fitter in his life, and added +that he looked it."</p> + +<p>Dick leapt to his feet, walked over to the window, and muffled a few +remarks about Aubrey Treherne, in the curtains. Nevertheless Helen heard +them.</p> + +<p>"Is—Ronnie—ill?" she asked, with trembling lips.</p> + +<p>Dick came back.</p> + +<p>"Ronnie is desperately ill, Mrs. West. But, now he is safely at home, +within easy reach of the best advice, we will soon have him all right +again. Don't you worry."</p> + +<p>But "worry" scarcely expressed Helen's face of agonised dismay.</p> + +<p>"Tell me—all," she said.</p> + +<p>Dick sat down and told her quite clearly and simply the text of his +message to her through Aubrey, explaining and amplifying it with full +medical details.</p> + +<p>"Any violent emotion, either of joy, grief <a name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></a>or anger, would probably +have disastrous results. He apparently came to blows with your cousin +during the evening he spent at Leipzig. Ronnie gave him a lovely thing +in the way of lips. One recalls it now with exceeding satisfaction. When +I saw your cousin afterwards he appeared to have condoned it. But it may +account for his subsequent behaviour. Fortunately this sort of +thing— "Dick glanced about him appreciatively—"looks peaceful enough."</p> + +<p>Helen sat in stricken silence.</p> + +<p>"It augurs well that he was able to stand the pleasure of his +home-coming," continued Dr. Dick. "He must be extraordinarily better, if +you noticed nothing unusual. Possibly he slept during the +night-crossing. Also, I gave him some stuff to take on the way back, +intended to clear his brain and calm him generally. Did he seem to you +quite normal?"</p> + +<p>Then Helen rose and stood before him with clasped hands.</p> + +<p>"He seemed to me quite normal," she said,<a name="Page_183" id="Page_183"></a> "because I had no idea of +anything else. But now that I know the truth, of course I realise at +once that he was not so. And, oh, Dr. Dick, I had a terrible scene with +Ronnie!"</p> + +<p>Dick stood up.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," he said.</p> + +<p>"I told Ronnie that he was utterly, preposterously, and altogether +selfish, and that I was ashamed of him."</p> + +<p>"Whew! You certainly did not mince matters," said Dr. Dick. "What had +poor old Ronnie done?"</p> + +<p>"He had talked, from the moment of his return, of very little save the +'cello he has brought home. He had suggested that it might amuse me to +put it into a bassinet. Then when at last tea was over, he proposed, as +the most delightful proceeding possible, that we should adjourn to the +studio, and that I should sit and listen while he made a first attempt +to play his 'cello—which, by the way, he calls, the 'Infant of Prague,' +explaining to me that it is the nicest infant that ever was."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></a>"Oh, that confounded Infant!" exclaimed Dr. Dick. "I have hated it from +the first! But really, Mrs. West "—he looked puzzled—"all this was no +doubt enthusiasm misplaced. But then Ronnie always is a perfect infant +himself, where new toys are concerned. You can hardly realise how much +he has looked forward to showing you that 'cello. His behaviour also +proved a decided tendency to self-absorption; but there the artistic +temperament comes in, which always creates a world of its own in which +it dwells content, often at the expense of duties and obligations +connected with outer surroundings. We all know that this is Ronnie's +principal failing. But—excuse me for saying so—it hardly deserved +quite so severe an indictment from you."</p> + +<p>Helen wrung her hands.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Dr. Dick took them both, firmly in his.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you tell me the truth?" he said.</p> + +<p>Then Helen told him.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></a>She never could remember afterwards exactly how she told him, and no +one but Helen ever knew what Dr. Dick said and did. But, months +later—when in her presence aspersions were being cast on Dick for his +indomitable ambition, his ruthless annihilation of all who stood in his +way, his utter lack of religious principle and orthodox belief—Helen, +her sweet face shadowed by momentary sadness, her eyes full of pathetic +remembrance, spoke up for Ronnie's chum. "He may be a bad old thing in +many ways," she said; "I admit that the language he uses is calculated +to make his great-aunt Louisa, of sacred memory, turn in her grave! +But—he is a tower of strength in one's hour of need."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"No," said Dick, after a while, gazing straight before him into the +fire, his chin in his hands; "I can't believe Ronnie knew it. He was +just in the condition to become frantically excited by such news. He +would <a name="Page_186" id="Page_186"></a>have been desperately anxious about you; wild that you should +have gone through it alone, and altogether absorbed in the idea of +coming home and seeing his child. The Infant of Prague would have had +its shining nose put completely out of joint. I don't believe Ronnie +ever had your letter. Write to the <i>Poste Restante</i> at Leipzig, and you +will receive it back."</p> + +<p>"Impossible," said Helen. "He opened and read it that evening in +Aubrey's flat. He told Aubrey the news, and Aubrey mentioned it in his +letter to me."</p> + +<p>Dick looked grave.</p> + +<p>"Well then," he said, "old Ronnie is in an even worse case than I +feared. I think we should go at once and look him up. I told my friend's +chauffeur to wait; so, if further advice is needed to-night, we can send +the car straight back to town with a message. Where is Ronnie?"</p> + +<p>"He took his 'cello, and went off to the studio. I heard him shut the +door."</p> + +<p>"Show me the way," said Dr. Dick.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187"></a>With his hand on the handle of the sitting-room door, he paused.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you—er—feel quite able to forgive poor old Ronnie, now?" he +asked.</p> + +<p>The yearning anguish in Helen's eyes made answer enough.</p> + +<p>They crossed the hall together; but—as they passed down the corridor +leading to the studio—they stopped simultaneously, and their eyes +sought one another in silent surprise and uncertainty.</p> + +<p>The deep full tones of a 'cello, reached them where they stood; tones so +rich, so plaintively sweet, so full of passion and melody, that, to the +anxious listeners in the dimly lighted corridor, they gave the sense of +something weird, something altogether uncanny in its power, unearthly in +its beauty.</p> + +<p>They each spoke at the same moment.</p> + +<p>"It cannot be Ronnie," they said.</p> + +<p>"It must be Ronnie," amended Helen. "There is no one else in the house."</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> go in," whispered Dick. "I will wait here. Call, if you want me. +Don't <a name="Page_188" id="Page_188"></a>startle him. Go in very softly. Be very—er—<i>you</i> know?"</p> + +<p>Helen moved forward alone.</p> + +<p>She laid her hand upon the handle of the studio door.</p> + +<p>She wished the weird music within would cease for one moment, that she +might feel more able to enter.</p> + +<p>Cold shivers ran down her spine.</p> + +<p>Try as she would, she could not connect that music with Ronnie.</p> + +<p>Somebody else was also in the studio, of that she felt quite certain.</p> + +<p>She nearly went back to Dick.</p> + +<p>Then—rating herself for cowardice—she turned the handle of the door +and passed in.</p> + +<p>Dick saw her disappear.</p> + +<p>Almost at that moment the 'cello-playing ceased; there was a crash, a +cry from Helen, a silence, and then—a wild shriek from Helen, a sound +holding so much of fear and of horror, that Dick shouted in reply as he +dashed forward.</p> + +<p>He found himself in a low room, oak-<a name="Page_189" id="Page_189"></a>panelled, lighted only by the +uncertain flame a log-fire. The door by which Dick had centered was to +the left of the fireplace. On the wall at the farther end of the room, +opposite both door and fireplace, hung an immense mirror in a massive +gilt frame.</p> + +<p>On the floor in the centre of the room lay Ronnie, unconscious, on his +back. The chair upon which he had been sitting and which had gone over +backwards with him, lay broken beneath him. His 'cello rested on his +chest. He gripped it there, with both his hands. They fell away from it, +as Dick looked at him.</p> + +<p>Ronnie's wife knelt on the floor beside him, but she was not looking at +Ronnie. She was staring, with white face and starting eyes, into the +mirror. Her left arm, stretched out before her, was rigid with horror, +from the shoulder to the tip of the pointing finger.</p> + +<p>"Look, Dick!" she shrieked. "Oh, heavens! Look!"</p> + +<p>Dick flashed up the electric light; then looked into the mirror.</p> + +<p>He saw himself loom large, dishevelled, <a name="Page_190" id="Page_190"></a>grimy, travel-stained. Then he +saw Ronnie and the Infant in a dark heap on the floor, and the white +face of Ronnie's wife, kneeling beside him with outstretched arm and +eyes upon the mirror. On the other side of Ronnie, in the very centre of +the scene, stood a queer old chair of Italian workmanship, the heads of +lions completing its curved arms, on its carved back the <i>fleur-de-lis</i> +of Florence, its seat of padded leather, embossed in crimson and gold.</p> + +<p>This was all Dick saw, excepting the leaping flames of the fire beyond.</p> + +<p>And even as he looked, Helen's arm fell to her side; he saw her turn, +lift the Infant off Ronnie's breast; and, bending over him, draw his +head on to her lap.</p> + +<p>Dick turned from the mirror. The scene in the room was identical with +the reflection, in all points save one. The Florentine chair was under +Ronnie. It had fallen with him. Its back was broken. Not until he had +lifted his friend from the floor did Dr. Dick see the panelled +<i>fleur-de-lis</i> of Florence, nor the <a name="Page_191" id="Page_191"></a>crimson and gold of the embossed +leather seat.</p> + +<p>As he and Helen together loosed Ronnie's collar and tie, she whispered: +"Did—<i>you</i>—see?"</p> + +<p>"This is no time for staring into mirrors," said Dr. Dick, crossly. "I +saw that <i>I</i> need a good wash; and <i>you</i>, some sal-volatile! But we +shall have plenty to do for Ronnie before we can find leisure to think +of ourselves. Send a couple of men here; sturdy fellows whom you can +trust. Order that car to the door; then bring me a pencil, a sheet of +note-paper and an envelope. There is just one man in the world who can +help us now, and we must have him here with as little delay as +possible."</p> + +<p>When Helen had left the room, Dick glanced furtively over his shoulder +into the mirror.</p> + +<p>The Italian chair, in the reflection, now lay broken on the floor!</p> + +<p>"Hum!" said Dr. Dick. "Not bad, that—for an Infant! Precocious, I call +it. We must have that 'cello re-christened the '<i>Demon</i> of Prague'!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h3> + +<h4>RONNIE FACES THE UPAS</h4> + + +<p>Ronnie had walked from his wife's sitting-room, along the corridor and +into the studio, in a state of stunned stupefaction.</p> + +<p>He carried his 'cello in one hand, its case and bow, which he had picked +up in the hall, in the other; but he had for the moment completely +forgotten the Infant.</p> + +<p>He leaned it against a chair, laid down the case, closed the studio +door; then walked to the fireplace.</p> + +<p>He stood looking at the great crackling logs, and into the glowing heart +of the fire beneath them.</p> + +<p>"Utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish," he repeated slowly. +"That is what my wife considers me; that is as I appear to Helen. +Utterly—preposterously—altogether—<a name="Page_193" id="Page_193"></a>selfish. She is so lovely—she is +so perfect! I—I have longed for her so! But <i>I</i> am utterly, +preposterously, altogether, selfish!"</p> + +<p>He put his arms upon the mantel-piece and dropped his head upon them. He +felt a queer contraction in his throat, a stinging beneath his eyelids, +such as he had not experienced since the days of childish mortifications +and sorrows. But the instinctive manliness of him, held back the actual +tears. He was debarred, even in solitude, from that form of relief.</p> + +<p>Presently he lifted his head, took out his pocket-book, and wrote down +the words, spelling each with a capital letter.</p> + +<p>He looked long at them; then suddenly exclaimed: "U, P, A, S! Why, it is +the Upas tree; the deadly, mysterious, poisonous Upas tree! I found it +in the jungle. I felt ill the night I camped beneath it. I have never +felt quite well since. The nightmares began on that night; and the +nightmares have followed me home. This is the worst of all. Helen calls +me the Upas tree—the <a name="Page_194" id="Page_194"></a>poisoner of her content. Utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish!"</p> + +<p>He turned on the electric lights, and walked up and down the room, with +desperate, restless tread.</p> + +<p>"Poisoning all it touches," he said. "Blasting the life of all who pass +beneath its deadly foliage—U,P,A,S—Upas."</p> + +<p>He paused before the great mirror, gazing at his own reflection.</p> + +<p>He put his face quite close to the glass, staring into his burning eyes.</p> + +<p>Then he struck at the reflection with his clenched fist. "Upas tree!" he +snarled. "Take that, and be damned!"</p> + +<p>He had hurt his knuckles. He walked back to the fire, rubbing them +carefully with his left hand.</p> + +<p>"Poor old chap," he said. "It <i>is</i> hard lines! You meant well; but all +the while you were a Upas tree. '<i>I, Helen, take thee, Upas, to be my +wedded husband</i>.' Poor lovely Helen! What a bargain!"</p> + +<p>He sat down in a deep basket-chair, lighted <a name="Page_195" id="Page_195"></a>a cigarette, pushed another +chair into position, exactly in front of him, with his foot; then +filling it, one by one, with friends of his own and Helen's, held +conversation with them.</p> + +<p>"Quite right, my dear Mrs. Dalmain! You need not now confine yourself to +<i>looking</i> your disapproval; you can <i>say</i> exactly what you think. You +see, Helen herself has told me the worst truth of all. I am a Upas tree. +She sums me up thus: U, P, A, S! You can hardly beat that, Mrs. Dalmain. +In fact, you look distressed. I can see that your kind heart is sorry +for me. Helen said you were a wonderful person to turn to in trouble. +There is no one in the world quite like you. Well, now's your chance to +prove it; for surely nobody ever came to you in more desperate trouble. +If you wish to be really kind and comforting, talk to me of my wife. Say +how sweet and lovely she is. Say that her arms are tender, her eyes +gentle and kind. I am the thirsty traveller in the desert, who sights +pure water, hastens eagerly forward, and finds—a mirage! But a deadly +stream <a name="Page_196" id="Page_196"></a>flows from the roots of the Upas—Hullo! Here comes Aubrey +Treherne. Look out, Mrs. Dalmain! He owes you a grudge. Hey, presto! +Vanish from the chair, or Helen's cousin will lean over, with a bleeding +face, threatening to kill you with both hands!...</p> + +<p>"Good-evening, Cousin Aubrey. How is your lip to-night? You mustn't kiss +Helen again, until that lip is well. Helen will be ashamed of you for +not being able to put fuel into a stove without knocking your lip. Fie, +man! Poor happy Ronnie, going home to show his wife his 'cello, believed +you. But the Upas tree knows! You can't deceive the Upas tree, you liar! +You may as well tell Helen that you wounded your lip on a branch of her +Upas tree....</p> + +<p>"Hullo, Dick! Come in, and welcome! Sit down, old boy. I want to ask you +something. Hist! Listen! That motor, which hooted in the park a moment +ago, contained a policeman—so it is essential we should know whether +there is any by-law in Leipzig <a name="Page_197" id="Page_197"></a>against men, as trees, walking. Because +you weren't walking about with a man, you know, but with a Upas tree. +When in doubt, ask—my wife! It would have made a sensational paragraph +in the papers: 'Arrest of a Upas tree, in the streets of Leipzig!' Worse +than 'Arrest of the Infant of Prague.' ... Why! Where is the Infant?"</p> + +<p>He turned and saw his 'cello, where he had placed it, leaning against a +chair.</p> + +<p>He rose, took it up, and walked over to the piano.</p> + +<p>"A, D, G, C. 'Allowable delights grow commonplace!' What did the fiend +mean? C, G, D, A. 'Courage gains desired aims.' That's better! We aimed +pretty straight at his lying mouth."</p> + +<p>He opened the piano, struck the notes, and tuned the 'cello exactly as +he had seen Aubrey do.</p> + +<p>At the first sound of the strings his mood changed. All bitterness +passed out of his face. A look of youth and hope dawned in it.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198"></a>He carried the 'cello back to the circle of chairs. He placed it where +it had stood before; then lay back in his own seat smiling dreamily at +the empty chair opposite.</p> + +<p>"Helen," he said, "darling, I don't really play the piano, I only strum. +But there is one instrument, above all others, which I have always +longed to play. I have it now. I own the 'cello I have always loved and +longed for; the 'cello on which I used to play a hundred years ago. Now +I am going to play to you; and you will forget everything in this world, +my wife, excepting that I love you."</p> + +<p>He drew the Infant between his knees; then realised at once that his +chair was too low.</p> + +<p>Rising, he went over to a corner where, against the wall, stood a +beautiful old chair which he and Helen had brought back, the winter +before, from Italy. Its arms and feet of walnut wood, were carved into +lions' heads and paws. Its back bore, in a medallion, the Florentine +<i>fleur-de-lis</i>. The high padded <a name="Page_199" id="Page_199"></a>seat was of embossed gold, on crimson +leather.</p> + +<p>Ronnie placed this queer old chair in the centre of the room, facing the +great mirror.</p> + +<p>Then he clicked off the electric lights, stirred the fire, and threw on +a couple of fresh logs.</p> + +<p>The flames shot up, illumining the room.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h3> + +<h4>"AS IN A MIRROR"</h4> + + +<p>Ronnie returned to the Florentine chair, took the 'cello between his +knees, placed his thumb behind its polished neck and his fingers on the +ebony finger-board. He let them glide lightly up and down the strings, +making no sound. Then he raised the bow in his right hand, and slowly, +softly, sounded the four open notes.</p> + +<p>Each tone was deep and true; there was no rasp—no uneven scraping of +the bow.</p> + +<p>The log-fire burned up brightly.</p> + +<p>He waited. A great expectation filled him.</p> + +<p>He was remembering something he had long forgotten.</p> + +<p>Looking straight before him at his own reflection in the mirror, he +smiled to see how <a name="Page_201" id="Page_201"></a>correctly he held the 'cello. The Infant seemed at +home between his knees.</p> + +<p>The sight of himself and the Infant thus waiting together, gave him +peculiar pleasure.</p> + +<p>The fire burned low.</p> + +<p>His reflected figure dimmed and faded. A misty shadow hid it from his +eyes. He could just see the shining of the silver strings, and the white +line of his linen cuff.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly, he forgot all else save that which he had been trying to +remember.</p> + +<p>He felt a strong tremor in his left wrist. He was gripping the neck of +the 'cello. The strings were biting deep into the flesh of his +finger-tips.</p> + +<p>He raised the bow and swept it across the strings.</p> + +<p>Low throbbing music filled the studio, and a great delight flooded +Ronnie's soul.</p> + +<p>He dared not give conscious thought to that which he was doing; he could +only go on doing it.</p> + +<p>He knew that he—he himself—was at last playing his own 'cello. Yet it +seemed to <a name="Page_202" id="Page_202"></a>him that he was merely listening, while another played.</p> + +<p>Two logs fell together in the fire behind him.</p> + +<p>Bright flames shot up, illumining the room.</p> + +<p>Ronnie raised his eyes and looked into the mirror.</p> + +<p>He saw therein reflected, the 'cello and the Italian chair; but the +figure of a man sat playing, and that man was not himself; that figure +was not his own.</p> + +<p>A grave, white face, set off by straight black hair, a heavy lock of +which fell over the low forehead; long white fingers gliding up and down +the strings, lace ruffles falling from the wrists. The knees, gripping +the 'cello, were clad in black satin breeches, black silk stockings were +on the shapely legs; while on the feet, planted firmly upon the floor, +gleamed diamond shoe-buckles.</p> + +<p>Ronnie gazed at this reflection.</p> + +<p>Each movement of the gliding bow, corresponded to the rhythm of the +music now throbbing through the studio.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203"></a>Ronnie played on, gazing into the mirror. The man in the mirror did not +lift his eyes, nor look at Ronnie. Either they were bent upon the +'cello, or he played with them fast closed.</p> + +<p>Ronnie dared not look down at his own hands. He could feel his fingers +moving up and down the strings, as moved the fingers in the mirror. He +feared he should see lace ruffles falling from his wrists, if he looked +at his own hands.</p> + +<p>The fire burned low again.</p> + +<p>Still Ronnie played on, staring before him as he played. The music +gained in volume and in beauty.</p> + +<p>The fire burned lower. The room was nearly dark. The reflection was +almost hidden.</p> + +<p>Ronnie, straining his eyes, could see only the white line of the low +square forehead.</p> + +<p>He wished the eyes would lift and look at him, piercing the darkness of +the darkening room.</p> + +<p>Another log fell. Again flames darted <a name="Page_204" id="Page_204"></a>upwards. Each detail in the +mirror was clear once more.</p> + +<p>The playing grew more rapid. Ronnie felt his fingers flying, yet +pressing deeply as they flew.</p> + +<p>The right foot of the figure, placed further back than the left, was +slightly raised. The heel was off the floor.</p> + +<p>Ronnie's right heel was also lifted.</p> + +<p>Then, looking past the figure in the chair, he marked behind him, where +in the reflection of the studio should have been the door, heavy black +curtains hanging in sombre folds. And, even as Ronnie noticed these, +they parted; and the lovely face of a woman looked in.</p> + +<p>As Ronnie saw that face he remembered many things—things of exquisite +joy, things of poignant sorrow; things inexpressible except in music, +unutterable except in tone.</p> + +<p>The 'cello sobbed, and wailed, and sang itself slowly into a minor +theme; yet the passion of the minor was more subtle, sweeter far, than +the triumph of the major.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></a>The woman glided in.</p> + +<p>Ronnie watched her. She came and softly stood behind the Florentine +chair.</p> + +<p>Apparently she made no sound. The 'cellist did not raise his eyes. He +appeared totally unconscious of her presence.</p> + +<p>The woman bent her beautiful head, observing him closely. Following her +eyes, Ronnie saw a ruffle of old lace falling from the 'cellist's +throat, a broad crimson ribbon crossing his breast, on which glittered a +diamond star.</p> + +<p>The woman waited.</p> + +<p>Ronnie watched.</p> + +<p>The 'cellist played on.</p> + +<p>The fire burned low.</p> + +<p>Then another log fell. Again flames darted upward.</p> + +<p>Ronnie saw the woman lay her left hand noiselessly upon the back of the +Italian chair, then slip her right behind her and take something bright, +off a table covered with bright things. And, as he watched, she flung +her right hand high above her head, and in it, <a name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></a>point downwards, gleamed +the sharp blade of a dagger.</p> + +<p>Her eyes met Ronnie's in the mirror. A gleam of malicious triumph shot +from them.</p> + +<p>He knew she was about to kill the unconscious 'cellist.</p> + +<p>His one thought was to warn and to save him. He knew no sound he made +could be heard in a past century; but whatever he himself now did, he +instinctively felt the 'cellist in the mirror would also do.</p> + +<p>With a desperate effort he stopped the movement of the bow.</p> + +<p>He had just time to see the 'cellist in the mirror also pause.</p> + +<p>Then Ronnie dropped his bow, gripped the 'cello with both hands, and, as +the swift blow fell, drew the body of the 'cello up over his breast.</p> + +<p>Then the back of his chair seemed to give way; his feet left the floor, +and he fell over backwards—down—down—down—into a never ending abyss +of throbbing, palpitating, rolling blackness.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207"></a></p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<h2><a name="Part_IV" id="Part_IV"></a>Part IV</h2> + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /><p><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208"></a></p><p><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h3> + +<h4>"THE FOG LIFTS"</h4> + + +<p>When Ronnie came to himself, emerging quite suddenly from a long, +confused dream, which had held many voices, many happenings over which +he had exercised no control and which were too indefinite to be +remembered, he found himself sitting on a seat, on the esplanade at +Hazelbeach.</p> + +<p>A crisp, wintry feeling was in the air; but the sun was brilliant, and +the high ground behind, sheltered the sea-front from wind.</p> + +<p>He was muffled in his fur coat, and felt quite warm.</p> + +<p>The first thing he consciously noticed was the sparkling of the ripple +on the calm water.</p> + +<p>There is something particularly reviving and inspiriting about sunshine +on the gaily moving sea. The effect is produced with <a name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></a>so little apparent +effort. The sun just shines; the water just moves; and lo, hosts of +sparkling diamonds!</p> + +<p>Ronnie watched it in silence for some time, before giving any sign that +he actually saw it.</p> + +<p>He was anxious carefully to take his bearings, without appearing to do +so.</p> + +<p>Helen sat beside him on the seat. She kept up a flow of conversation, in +the kind, cheerful, intelligent voice in which you talk to a child who +has to be kept happy and amused.</p> + +<p>Ronnie let her go on talking in that voice, while he took his bearings.</p> + +<p>He glanced at her, furtively, once; then turned his eyes seaward again.</p> + +<p>Helen, also, was wearing a fur coat, and a pretty grey fur toque on her +soft hair. Her face seemed thinner than it used to be; but the sea +breeze and sunshine had brought a bright colour to her cheeks.</p> + +<p>Ronnie's eyes left the ripples, and wandered cautiously up and down the +shore.</p> + +<p>The beach was deserted. No moving figures <a name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></a>dotted the esplanade. Helen +and he would have been alone, had it not been for one tiresome man who +sat reading on the next seat to theirs. He looked like a superior valet +or upper footman, in a bowler and a black morning coat. He was just out +of earshot; but his presence prevented Ronnie from feeling himself alone +with Helen, and increased the careful caution with which he took his +bearings.</p> + +<p>At last he felt the moment had arrived to stop Helen's well-meant +attempts at amusing him.</p> + +<p>The man on the other seat was a dozen yards off to the right. Helen sat +quite close to him on the left. He turned his back on the other seat and +looked earnestly into his wife's face.</p> + +<p>"Helen," he said, quietly, "how did we get here?"</p> + +<p>"We motored, darling. It isn't very far across country, though to get +here by train we should have to go up to town and down again."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></a>"When did we come?"</p> + +<p>"Yesterday. Ronnie, do look at those funny little wooden houses just +beyond us on the esplanade. They take the place of bathing-machines, or +bathing-tents, in summer. They can be hired just for the morning, or you +can engage one for the whole time of your visit, and furnish it +comfortably. Don't you think it is quite a good idea? And people give +them such grand names. I saw one called 'Woodstock,' and another +'Highcombe House.' If we took one, we should have to call it 'The +Grange.'"</p> + +<p>"Helen, you have told me all about those little huts twice already, +during the last half-hour. Only, last time you had seen one called +'Runnymead,' and another called 'The Limes.' Presently, if you like, we +will walk along and read all the names. It is just the kind of thing +which would appeal to our joint sense of humour. But first you must +answer a few more questions. Helen—where is my 'cello?"</p> + +<p>"At home, Ronnie."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213"></a>"Was it broken?"</p> + +<p>Helen looked distressed. "No, darling, it was not injured at all. It is +safely put away. Look how the sunlight sparkles on those distant +ripples!"</p> + +<p>"I have finished with the ripples thank you, darling. Helen, I know I've +been desperately ill. But I'm all right now, and I want you to tell me +all about it."</p> + +<p>He saw her glance past him, at the man who sat reading on the next seat.</p> + +<p>"Don't worry about him," he said. "He can't overhear. If you think he +can, let's move on."</p> + +<p>"No, no!" said Helen, quickly. "We are so cosy here in the sunshine. +Ronnie, do you see those—"</p> + +<p>"No, dear," he said, "I don't! At this moment I see nothing but you. And +I decline to have my attention drawn any more to the exciting things to +be seen on the shore at Hazelbeach in winter.... Oh, yes, I knew it was +Hazelbeach! Five years ago I spent a jolly week here with some friends.<a name="Page_214" id="Page_214"></a> +We hired a little wooden hut and called it 'Buckingham Palace,' I +remember."</p> + +<p>He slipped his hand into her muff, capturing both hers.</p> + +<p>Her look of anxiety and alarm went to his heart. He had never seen Helen +frightened before; and he knew with unerring instinct that she was +afraid—<i>of him</i>.</p> + +<p>It was hard; for he was desperately tired in mind and body. To subside +into passive acquiescence and watch the ripples again, would be the +easier way. But he must make a fight for his newly-recovered sanity and +reason, and to convince Helen in the matter seemed the first thing to be +accomplished.</p> + +<p>Her hands were shaking in her muff. He held them firmly with his.</p> + +<p>"Darling," he said, "I know I have been very bad. I was ill in Leipzig, +though I didn't know it. But Dick Cameron told me I ought not to have +been going about there. I suppose since then I have been quite off my +head. But, oh, Helen, can't you see—- can't you <i>see</i>, darling—that I +am all right again <a name="Page_215" id="Page_215"></a>now? I can remember practically nothing which has +happened since I played my 'cello in front of the mirror in the studio. +But, up to that moment, I remember everything quite clearly; my travels, +my manuscript, the time when I began to get feverish and lost my +sleep—I can see now the very spot where I camped when I had my first +nightmare. Then working night and day on board ship, then Leipzig, the +Hague, London in a fog; then home—to you. Helen, it has all come back. +Can't you realise that the clouds have lifted; can't you believe, my own +dear girl, that my mind is clear again? Look at the sunshine on the sea, +dispelling the morning mists. <i>In hoc signo vinces!</i> You said the path +of clear shining was the way to victory. Well, I have conquered whatever +it was which poisoned my brain for a while. I am absolutely myself again +now. Can't you believe it, Helen?"</p> + +<p>The tears were running down her cheeks. She looked full into his earnest +eyes.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Ronnie, you do look different!<a name="Page_216" id="Page_216"></a> You do look your own dear self. Oh, +Ronnie, my own! But Dick is coming back to-morrow. He went up to town +only this morning. He will tell us what to do. Till then, don't you +think we had better just talk about the sea, and the little houses, +and—and how happy we are?"</p> + +<p>"No, Helen," he said firmly. "We are not happy yet. I must know more. +How long is it since that evening in the studio?"</p> + +<p>"About a month, darling. This is Christmas week. To-morrow will be +Christmas Eve."</p> + +<p>Ronnie considered this in silence.</p> + +<p>Then: "Let's walk up and down," he said. "It ought to be too cold to sit +about in Christmas week."</p> + +<p>She rose and they walked along the sea-front together.</p> + +<p>Ronnie glanced behind them. The man on the seat had risen also and was +following at a little distance.</p> + +<p>"What cheek of that chap," he said. "He <a name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></a>seems determined to overhear +our conversation. Shall I tell him to be off?"</p> + +<p>"No, dear; please don't," she answered hurriedly. "He cannot possibly +overhear us."</p> + +<p>Presently she dropped her muff and stooped to pick it up. But Ronnie +turned also, and saw her make a sign to the man following them, who at +once sat down on the nearest seat.</p> + +<p>Then poor Ronnie knew.</p> + +<p>"I suppose he is a keeper," he said.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, darling! He is only a trained attendant; just a sort of valet +for you. Such a nice man and so attentive. He brushes your clothes."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Ronnie. "Valets are quite useful people. But they do not +as a rule sit reading in the middle of the morning, on the next seat to +their master and mistress! Do they? However, if Dick is coming +to-morrow, we can discuss the valet question with him. Take my arm, +Helen. I feel a bit shaky when I walk. Now tell me—why did we come +here?"</p> + +<p>"They thought the change of scene, the <a name="Page_218" id="Page_218"></a>perfect quiet, and the bracing +air might do wonders for you, Ronnie."</p> + +<p>"Who were 'they'?"</p> + +<p>"Dr. Dick and—a friend of his."</p> + +<p>"I see. Well, I won't bully you into telling me things you are afraid I +ought not to know. But I will tell you just how much I <i>do</i> know. It is +all a queer sort of black dream. I absolutely can't remember <i>seeing</i> +anything, until I found myself watching the sparkle of the ripples on +the sea. But I vaguely remember <i>hearing</i> things. There was always a +kind voice. Of course that was yours, Helen. Also there was a kind hand. +I used to try not to do anything which could hurt the kind hand. Then, +there were several strange voices; they came and went. Then there was +Mrs. Dalmain. When her voice was there I always tried to do at once what +the strange voices and the kind voice wished; because I was horribly +afraid of being left alone with Mrs. Dalmain! Then I sometimes thought I +heard a baby cry. Wasn't that queer?"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></a>Helen did not answer. A deep flush overspread her face, mounting from +her chin to the roots of her hair. Was Ronnie going to remember?</p> + +<p>"The kind voice used to say: 'Take him away, Nurse'; but I am vague +about this; because I was miles down a deep well when it happened, and +the baby was up at the top. I expect I got the idea from having called +my 'cello the Infant of Prague. Did you hear me playing, on that +evening, Helen?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I heard."</p> + +<p>"Was it beautiful?"</p> + +<p>"Very beautiful, Ronnie."</p> + +<p>"I am longing to get back to play my 'cello again."</p> + +<p>"By-and-by, dear."</p> + +<p>"Did I talk much of the 'cello when I was ill?"</p> + +<p>"A good deal. But you talked chiefly of your travels and adventures; +such weird things, that the doctors often thought they were a part of +your delirium. But I found them all clearly explained in your +manuscript.<a name="Page_220" id="Page_220"></a> I hope you won't mind, Ronnie. They asked me to glance +through it, in order to see whether anything to be found there threw +light on your illness. But of course you know, dearest, I could not do +that. I never 'glanced through' any manuscript of yours yet. Either I do +not touch them at all, or I read them carefully every word. I read this +carefully."</p> + +<p>"Is it all right?"</p> + +<p>"Ronnie, it is magnificent! Quite the best thing you have done yet. Such +brilliant descriptive writing. Even in the midst of my terrible anxiety, +I used to be carried right away from all my surroundings. Of course I do +not yet know the end; but when you are able to work again we can talk it +all over, and you will tell me."</p> + +<p>His sad face brightened. A look of real gladness came into it; the first +she had seen for so long.</p> + +<p>"I am glad it is all right," he said, simply. "I thought it was. I am +glad I am not altogether a rotter."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221"></a>After that they walked on in silence. His last remark had been so +unexpected in its bitterness, that Helen could find no words in which to +answer it.</p> + +<p>She glanced at her watch. It was almost time for luncheon. She pointed +out their hotel.</p> + +<p>"Come, darling; we can talk more easily indoors. We have a charming +private sitting-room, overlooking the sea."</p> + +<p>He turned at once; but as they entered the hotel gardens he said +suddenly: "Did I talk of a Upas tree, while I was off my head?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Ronnie, constantly. In fact you thought you <i>were</i> a Upas tree!"</p> + +<p>"I <i>knew</i> I was a Upas tree," said Ronnie.</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because my wife told me so, the evening I came home. How do you spell +'Upas'?"</p> + +<p>"U, P, A, S. Oh, Ronnie, what do you mean?"</p> + +<p>He paused, and shading his eyes, looked away over the sunny sea to where +the vessels, from the Hook of Holland, come into port.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222"></a>"Just that," he said. "Exactly that. Utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish. That is the Upas tree."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Ronnie," she cried, "if you knew—"</p> + +<p>But Ronnie had seen a bowler hat behind the hedge. He called its wearer +forward.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. West tells me you are my valet," he said. "Kindly show me to my +room."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h3> + +<h4>"HE <i>MUST</i> REMEMBER"</h4> + +<p>Dick arrived very early the next morning, having to be off again by the +twelve o'clock train, in order to reach that evening the place where he +was due to spend Christmas.</p> + +<p>A telegram from Helen had prepared him for a change in Ronnie, but +hardly for the complete restoration of mental balance which he saw in +his friend, as they hailed one another at the railway station.</p> + +<p>Ronnie had breakfasted early, in order to meet Dick's train. He had said +nothing of his plan to Helen, merely arranging his breakfast-hour +overnight with the "valet."</p> + +<p>He walked to the station alone; but, arrived there, found the "valet" on +the platform.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224"></a>"Thought I might be wanted, sir, to carry the doctor's bag," he +explained, touching his hat. But, just as the train rounded the bend, he +remarked: "Better stand back a little, sir," and took Ronnie firmly by +the arm.</p> + +<p>Ronnie could have knocked him down; but realised that this would be the +surest way to find himself more than ever hedged in by precautions. So +he stood back, in wrathful silence, and, as Dick's gay face appeared at +the window of a third-class smoker, the "valet" loosed his hold and +disappeared. It may here be recorded that this was the last time Ronnie +saw him. Apparently he found it necessary to carry Dr. Dick's bag all +the way back to town.</p> + +<p>"Hullo, old chap!" cried Dick.</p> + +<p>"Hullo, Dick!" said Ronnie. "This is better than Leipzig, old man. I'm +all right. I must give you a new thermometer!"</p> + +<p>"You shall," said Dick. "After Christmas we'll have a spree together in +town and choose it. No need to tell me you 're all right, Ronnie.<a name="Page_225" id="Page_225"></a> It's +writ large on you, my boy. He who runs may read!"</p> + +<p>"Well, I wish you'd write it large on other people," said Ronnie, as +they walked out of the station.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Dick, I'm having a devil of a time! There's a smug chap in a bowler hat +who is supposed to be my valet. When I went to bed last night, I found I +had a decent room enough, opening out of the sitting-room. I was +obviously expected to turn in there, asking no questions; so I turned +in. But the valet person slept in a room communicating with mine. The +latch and the lock of the door between, had been tampered with. The door +wouldn't shut, so I had to sleep all night with that fellow able to look +in upon me at any moment. After I had been in bed a little while, I +remembered something I had left in the sitting-room and wanted. I got up +quietly to fetch it. That door was locked, on the sitting-room side!"</p> + +<p>"Poor old boy! We'll soon put all that <a name="Page_226" id="Page_226"></a>right. You see you were pretty +bad, while you <i>were</i> bad; and all kinds of precautions were necessary. +We felt sure of a complete recovery, and I always predicted that it +would be sudden. But it is bound to take a little while to get all your +surroundings readjusted. Why not go home at once? Pack up and go back to +Hollymead this afternoon, and have a real jolly Christmas there—you, +and Helen, and the kid."</p> + +<p>"The kid?" queried Ronnie, perplexed. "What kid? Oh, you mean my +'cello—the Infant of Prague."</p> + +<p>Dick, meanwhile, had bitten his tongue severely.</p> + +<p>"Yes, the jolly old Infant of Prague, of course. Is it 'he,' 'she,' or +'it'? I forget."</p> + +<p>"It," replied Ronnie, gravely. "In the peace of its presence one forgets +all wearying 'he and she' problems. Yes, I want most awfully to get back +to my 'cello. I want to make sure it is not broken; and I want to make +sure it is no dream, that I can play.<a name="Page_227" id="Page_227"></a> But—I don't want to go, unless I +can go alone. Can't you prescribe complete solitude, as being absolutely +essential for me? Dick, I'm wretched! I don't care where I go; but I +want to get away by myself."</p> + +<p>"Why, old man?"</p> + +<p>"Because my wife still considers me insane."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, Ron! And don't talk of being insane. You were never that. +Some subtle malarial poison, we shall never know what, got into your +blood, affected your brain, and you've had a bad time—a very bad +time—of being completely off your balance; the violent stage being +followed by loss of memory, and for a time, though mercifully you knew +nothing about it, complete loss of sight. But these things returned, one +by one; and, as soon as you were ready for it, you awoke to +consciousness, memory, and reason. There is no possible fear of the +return of any of the symptoms, unless you come again in contact with the +poison; hardly likely, as it attacked you in Central Africa. Of course, +as I say, <a name="Page_228" id="Page_228"></a>we shall never know precisely what the poison was."</p> + +<p>Then Ronnie spoke, suddenly. "It was the Upas tree," he said. "I camped +near it. My nightmares began that night. I never felt well, from that +hour."</p> + +<p>"Rubbish!" said Dr. Dick. "More likely a poisonous swamp. The Upas tree +is a myth."</p> + +<p>"Not at all," insisted Ronnie. "It is a horrid reality. I had seen the +one in Kew Gardens. I recognised it directly, yet I camped in its +shadow. Dick, do you know what the Upas stands for?"</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"Selfishness! It stands for any one who is utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish."</p> + +<p>"Oh, buck up old man!" cried Dick. "We are all selfish—every mother's +son of us! Perhaps that's why! Most men's mothers spoil them, and their +wives continue the process. But you will be selfish with a vengeance, if +you don't buck up and give that splendid wife of yours a good time now. +She <a name="Page_229" id="Page_229"></a>has been through—such a lot. Ronnie, you will never quite +realise—well, <i>I</i> never knew such a woman, excepting, perhaps, Mrs. +Dalmain; and of course she has not your wife's beauty. I haven't the +smallest intention of ever coming under the yoke myself. But I assure +you, old chap, if you had pegged out, as you once or twice seemed likely +to do, I should have had a jolly good try as to whether I couldn't chip +in, by-and-by."</p> + +<p>"Confound you!" said Ronnie. But he laughed, and felt better.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Dr. Dick saw Helen alone.</p> + +<p>"Well," he said, "so we've pulled him through. Ronnie's all right now. +No more need for watching and planning, and guarding; in fact, the less +he realises the precautions which were necessary, the better. I shall +take Truscott back to town with me. He seems to have done awfully well. +I suppose you have no complaints. Why don't you hire a car and run +straight back home with<a name="Page_230" id="Page_230"></a> Ronnie this afternoon. Think what a jolly +Christmas you might have. Show him the boy as a Christmas present! I +believe he is keen to be at home; and the less you thwart him now, the +better. Don't suggest it until I am gone; but send a wire home at once +to say you are probably returning this afternoon. Then your people will +make all needed preparations for the festive day; turkeys and holly, and +all that sort of thing; have fires lighted everywhere, and all in +readiness. My old sweetheart, Mrs. Blake, will put on cherry-coloured +ribbons, and black satin, and be in the hall to receive you! You had +better mention, in the wire, that I am not coming; then she won't waste +her time hanging mistletoe in likely corners."</p> + +<p>Helen wrote the telegram, rang, and gave it to a page.</p> + +<p>Then she turned to Dr. Dick.</p> + +<p>"Ronnie is <i>not</i> fully himself, yet," she said.</p> + +<p>Dick looked at her keenly. "How so?"</p> + +<p>"He professes to remember, and does remember, everything which happened, +up <a name="Page_231" id="Page_231"></a>to the final crash in the studio. Yet he has made no mention to me +of—of our child."</p> + +<p>"He is shy about it," suggested Dick. "You speak first."</p> + +<p>"I cannot," she replied. "It is for Ronald to do that."</p> + +<p>"Ah, you dear women!" moralised the young bachelor. "You remind me of +Nebuchadnezzar—no, I mean Naaman. You bravely ford the rushing waters +of your Abanas and your Pharpars, and then you buck-jump at the little +river Jordan!"</p> + +<p>"My dear Dick, I am becoming accustomed to the extraordinary inaptness +of your scriptural allusions. But this is hardly a <i>small</i> matter +between me and Ronnie. I am ready to make every allowance for his +illness and loss of memory; but I don't see how I can start life with +him at home, until he manages to remember a thing of such vital import +in our wedded life. He may be sane on every other point. I cannot +consider him sane on this."</p> + +<p>"Shall I tell him?" suggested Dick.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232"></a>"No, let him remember. He can remember his Infant of Prague; his mind +is full of that again. Why should he not be able to remember my baby +son?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, lor!" sighed Dr. Dick. "Why not put that poser to Ronnie direct, +instead of putting it to me? Forgive me for saying so, but you are +suffering just now from a reaction, after the terrible strain through +which you have passed. And Ronnie is wretched too, because he remembers +how you let fly at him that evening, and he thinks you really meant it."</p> + +<p>"I did," said Helen. "Of course, had I known how ill he was, poor old +boy, I should have been more patient. But I have a little son to +consider now, as well as Ronnie. I <i>did</i> think him selfish, and I <i>do</i>."</p> + +<p>"My dear angel," said Dr. Dick, "we are all selfish, every mother's son +of us; and it is you blessed women who make us so."</p> + +<p>She looked at him, with softening eyes. "<i>You</i> are not selfish, Dick," +she said.</p> + +<p>"I am," he answered; "and a long chalk <a name="Page_233" id="Page_233"></a>worse than Ronnie. I combine +ambition with my selfishness. I jolly well mean to get to the top of the +tree, and I don't care how I get there. I down every one who dares stand +in my way; or—I use them as stepping-stones. There! Isn't that a worse +Upas tree than poor old Ronnie's? Mine is a life untouched by love, or +any gentler feelings. All that sort of thing was killed in me when I was +quite a little chap. It is the story of a broken halo. Perhaps I'll tell +it you some day. Meanwhile, this being Christmas Eve and not Ash +Wednesday, I'll make no more confessions. Don't you want to hear the +result of my psychic investigations, concerning our mirror experiences?"</p> + +<p>"Exceedingly," said Helen. "Have you time to tell me now?"</p> + +<p>"Heaps of time. It won't take long. Last night I told the whole story to +a man who makes a special study of these matters, and knows more about +things psychic than any other man in England. The Brands asked me to +dinner and arranged to have <a name="Page_234" id="Page_234"></a>him also. After dinner he and I went down +alone to the doctor's consulting room, and talked the whole thing out. I +was careful to mention no names. You don't want to be credited with a +haunted room at the Grange, neither do we want Ronnie's name mixed up +with psychical phenomena. Now I will give you this man's opinion and +explanation, exactly as he gave it to me. Only, remember, I pass it on +as his. I do not necessarily endorse it.</p> + +<p>"He holds that inanimate objects, such as beds, walls, cupboards, +staircases, have a power of receiving, absorbing and retaining +impressions transmitted to them through contact with human minds in +extreme conditions of stress and tension. This would especially be the +case with intimately personal things, such as musical instruments, or +favourite chairs. Old rooms and ancient furniture might retain these +impressions for centuries; and, under certain circumstances, transmit +them to any mind, with which they came in contact, happening <a name="Page_235" id="Page_235"></a>to be +strung up to the right key to respond to the psychic impression. He +considers that this theory accounts for practically all ghost stories +and haunted rooms, passages, and staircases. It reduces all apparitions +to the subjective rather than the objective plane; in other words the +spirit of a murdered man does not return at certain times to the room in +which he was done to death; but his agonised mind, in its last conscious +moments, left an impress upon that room which produces a subjective +picture of the scene, or part of the scene, upon any mind psychically +<i>en rapport</i> with that impress. I confess this idea appeals to me. It +accounts for the undoubted fact that certain old rooms are undeniably +creepy; also that apparitions, unconnected with actual flesh and blood, +have been seen by sane and trustworthy witnesses. It does away with the +French word for ghost—<i>revenant</i>. There is no such thing as a +'comer-back,' or an 'earth-bound spirit.' Personally, I do not believe +in immortality, in the usually accepted sense of the word; but I have +<a name="Page_236" id="Page_236"></a>always felt that were there such a thing as a disembodied spirit, it +would have something better to do than to walk along old corridors, +frightening housemaids! But, to come to the point, concerning our own +particular experience.</p> + +<p>"I carefully told him every detail. He believes that probably the old +Florentine chair and the 'cello had been in conjunction before, and had +both played their part in the scene which was re-acted in the mirror. If +so, poor old Ron was jolly well in for it, seated in the chair, and +holding the 'cello. His already over-excited brain found itself caught +between them. The fitful firelight and the large mirror supplied +excellent mediums for the visualisation of the subjective picture. Of +course, we do not yet know what Ronnie saw. I trust we never shall. It +is to be hoped he has forgotten it. Had you and I seen nothing, we +should unquestionably have dismissed the whole thing as merely a +delirious nightmare of Ronnie's unhinged brain.</p> + +<p>"But the undoubted fact remains that we <a name="Page_237" id="Page_237"></a>each saw, reflected in that +mirror, objects which were not at that moment in the room. In fact we +saw the <i>past</i> reflected, rather than the <i>present</i>. My psychic +authority considers that both our impressions came to us through +Ronnie's mind, and were already fading, owing to the fact that he had +become unconscious. I, coming in later than you, merely saw the +Florentine chair in position. All else in my view of the reflection +appertained to the actual present, into which the long-ago past was then +rapidly merging. But you, coming in a few moments sooner, and being far +more <i>en rapport</i> with the spirit of the scene, saw the tall man in a +red cloak—whom you call the Avenger—strangling the girl. By the way, +why do you call him the Avenger?"</p> + +<p>"Because," said Helen, slowly, "there was murder in the cruel face of +the woman, and there was a dagger in her hand. She had struck her blow +before he appeared upon the scene. I know this, because it was the flare +of his crimson cloak, as he rushed in, which first caught my eye, in the +firelight, and <a name="Page_238" id="Page_238"></a>made me look into the mirror at all. Before that I was +intent on Ronnie. The Avenger seized the woman from behind; I saw his +brown hands on the whiteness of her throat. Grief and horror were on his +face, as he looked over her shoulder, and past the chair, at the +prostrate heap upon the floor."</p> + +<p>"Which heap," said Dick, trying to speak lightly, "was our poor Ronnie."</p> + +<p>"No," said Helen, gazing straight before her into the fire, "the heap +upon the floor was <i>not</i> Ronnie."</p> + +<p>"But—I am positive!—I saw it myself! I saw you kneeling beside it. I +helped to sort it, afterwards. The actual heap on the floor was the +broken chair, Ronnie mixed up with it; and, on top of both, that unholy +Infant, whose precocious receptivity is responsible for the entire +business. I exonerate the Florentine chair; I exonerate poor Ronnie. I +shall always maintain that that confounded 'cello worked the whole show, +out of its own unaided tummy!"</p> + +<p>But Helen did not laugh. She did not even <a name="Page_239" id="Page_239"></a>smile. "The heap on the floor +was not Ronnie," she repeated firmly, "nor was I kneeling beside it. The +Italian chair had not fallen over. Not a single thing appertaining to +the present, was reflected in the picture as I first saw it. Dick, there +was a conclusion to my vision of which I have never told you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, lor!" said Dick. "When I guaranteed the psychic chap that I was +putting him in full possession of every detail!"</p> + +<p>"I am sorry, Dick. But until this moment I have never felt able to tell +you. I cannot do so now, unless you are nice."</p> + +<p>"I <i>am</i> nice," said Dick, "<i>very</i> nice! Tell me quick."</p> + +<p>"Well, as I knelt transfixed, watching—the heap on the floor moved and +arose. It was a slight dark man, with a white face, and a mass of +tumbled black hair. He lifted from off his breast as he got up, a +violoncello. He did not look at the woman, nor at the man in the crimson +cloak; he stood staring, as if petrified with grief and dismay, at his +'cello. Following his eyes, I saw a dark jagged stab, piercing <a name="Page_240" id="Page_240"></a>its +right breast, just above the <i>f</i> hole. The anguish on the 'cellist's +face, was terrible to see. Then—oh, Dick, I don't know how to tell +you!"</p> + +<p>"Go on, Helen," he said, gently.</p> + +<p>"Then he turned from the 'cello, and looked at <i>me</i>; and, Dick, it was +the soul of Ronnie—<i>my</i> Ronnie—in deepest trouble over his Infant of +Prague, which looked at me through those deep sad eyes. I cannot explain +to you how I knew it! He was totally unlike my big fair Ronnie, but—it +was the soul of Ronnie, in great distress, looking at <i>me</i>! The moment I +realised this, I seemed set free from the past. The 'cellist, the woman, +the Avenger, all vanished instantly. I saw myself reflected, I saw you, +I saw the studio; I saw Ronnie on the floor. I turned to him at once, +lifted the 'cello from his breast, and drew his head into my lap."</p> + +<p>"Was there a jagged hole—"</p> + +<p>"No, not a scratch. The stab belonged to a century ago. But, listen +Dick! Several days later, when I had a moment in which <a name="Page_241" id="Page_241"></a>to remember +Ronnie's poor Infant of Prague, I examined it in a good light, and found +the place where the hole made by that dagger had been skilfully mended."</p> + +<p>"Lor!" said Dr. Dick. "We're getting on! Don't you think you and I and +the Infant might put our heads together, and write a psychic book! But +now—seriously. Do you really believe Ronnie was once a slim, pale +person, with a shock of black hair? And if he and his Infant lived +together in past ages, where were you and I? Are we altogether out of +it? Or are you the lady with the dagger, and I the noble party in the +flaming cloak?"</p> + +<p>She smiled, and a look of quiet peace was in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Dick," she said, "I am not troubled at all about the past. My whole +concern is with the present; my earnest looking forward is to the +future. And remember, that which set me completely free to think only of +the present, was when my Ronnie's soul looked out at me from that +strange vision of the <a name="Page_242" id="Page_242"></a>past. I cannot say exactly what I believe. But I +know my entire responsibility is to the present; my hope and confidence +are towards the future. I realise, as I have never realised before, the +deep meaning of the words: 'Lord, Thou hast been our Dwelling-place, in +all generations.' I am content to leave it at that."</p> + +<p>Dick sat silent; sobered, impressed, by a calm confidence of faith, +which was new to him.</p> + +<p>Then he said: "Good for you, Helen, that you can take it so. Personally, +I believe in nothing which I cannot fully explain and understand. +'Faith,' in your sense of the word, has no place in my vocabulary. I was +a very small boy when my faith took to itself wings and flew away; and, +curiously enough, it was while I was singing lustily, in the village +church at Dinglevale: 'As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever +shall be; world without end, Amen'!"</p> + +<p>"It will come back again," said Helen. "Dick, I know it will come back. +Some day <a name="Page_243" id="Page_243"></a>you will come to me and you will say: 'It has come back.' The +thrusting hand and the prying finger are the fashion nowadays, I know. +But the grand old faith which will win out in the end, is the faith +which stands with clasped hands, in deepest reverence of belief; and, +lifting adoring eyes, is not ashamed to say to the revelation of a Risen +Christ: 'My Lord and my God!'"</p> + +<p>Dick stirred uneasily in his chair.</p> + +<p>"We have got off the subject," he said, "and it's about time we looked +up Ronnie. But, first of all: how much of all this do you mean to tell +Ronnie?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing whatever, if I can help it," replied Helen. "So far as I know, +I hope, after this morning, never to mention the subject again."</p> + +<p>"I think you are wise. And now let me give you a three-fold bit of +advice. Smash the mirror; burn the chair; brain the Infant!"</p> + +<p>Helen laughed. "No, no, Dick!" she said. "I can do none of those things. +I must take tenderest care of Ronnie's Infant.<a name="Page_244" id="Page_244"></a> I have had his valuable +old chair carefully mended; and I must not let him think I fear the +mirror."</p> + +<p>"You're a brave woman," said Dick. "Believing what you do, you're a +brave woman to live in the house with that mirror. Or, perhaps, it comes +of believing so much. A certainty of confidence, which asks no +questions, must be to some extent a fortifying thing. By the way, you +will remember that the long rigmarole I gave you was not my own +explanation, but the expert's? Mine is considerably simpler and shorter. +In fact, it can be summed up in three words."</p> + +<p>"What is your explanation, Dick?"</p> + +<p>"Whisky and soda," said Dr. Dick, bravely. "You mixed it stiffer than +you knew. I was dead beat, and had had no food. I have always been a +fairly abstemious chap; in my profession we have to be: woe betide the +man who isn't. But since I saw that chair standing on its four legs in +the mirror, when it was lying broken on the floor in reality, I have not +touched a drop of alcohol. There!<a name="Page_245" id="Page_245"></a> I make you a present of that for your +next temperance meeting. Now let's go out and buck Ronnie up. Remember, +he'll feel jolly flat for a bit, with no temperature. Temperature is a +thing you miss, when it has become a habit."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h3> + +<h4>"HE NEVER KNEW!"</h4> + + +<p>Ronnie saw Dick off by the mid-day train.</p> + +<p>After the train had begun to move, Dick leaned from the window, and said +suddenly: "Ronnie! talk to your wife about her Leipzig letter, and—<i>the +kid</i>, you know."</p> + +<p>Ronnie kept pace with the train long enough to say: "I wish you wouldn't +call it the 'kid,' Dick; it is the 'Infant.' And Helen declines to talk +of it."</p> + +<p>Then he dropped behind, and Dick flung himself into a corner of his +compartment, with a face of comic despair. "Merciful heavens," he said, +"slay that Infant!"</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Ronnie was saying to a porter: "When is the next train for +town?"</p> + +<p>"One fifty-five, sir."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247"></a>"Then I have no chance now of catching the three o'clock from town, for +Hollymead?"</p> + +<p>"Not from town, sir. But there is a way, by changing twice, which gets +you across country, and you pick up the three o'clock all right at +Huntingford, four ten."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure, my man? I was told there was no way across country."</p> + +<p>"The one fifty-five is the only train in the day by which you can do it, +sir. I happen to know, because I have a sister lives at Hollymead, so +I've done it m'self. If trains aren't late, you hit off the three +o'clock at Huntingford."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," said Ronnie, noting down particulars. Then he walked rapidly +back to the hotel.</p> + +<p>"I can't stand it," he said. "I shall bolt! With me off her hands, she +can go and have a jolly Christmas at the Dalmains. She is always welcome +there. I must get away alone and think matters out. I know everything is +all wrong, and yet I don't exactly know what has come between us. I only +know I <a name="Page_248" id="Page_248"></a>am wretched, and so is she. It is still the poison of the Upas. +If I knew why she suddenly considered me utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish, I would do my level best to put it right. But I +don't."</p> + +<p>He found Helen in the hall, anxiously watching the door. She took up a +paper, as he came in.</p> + +<p>"Helen," he said, "do you mind if we lunch punctually at one o'clock? I +am going out before two."</p> + +<p>"Why, certainly we will," said Helen. "You must have had a very early +breakfast, Ronnie. But don't overdo, darling. Remember what Dick said. +Shall I come with you?"</p> + +<p>"I would rather go alone," said Ronnie. "I want to think things over."</p> + +<p>She rose and stood beside him.</p> + +<p>"Ronnie dear, we seem to have lost all count of days. But, as a matter +of fact, to-morrow is Christmas Day. Would you like to go home this +afternoon? We can order a car for two o'clock, and be at the<a name="Page_249" id="Page_249"></a> Grange for +tea. Ronnie, wouldn't it be rather lovely? Think of the little cosy +tea-table, and your own especial chair, and the soft lamp-light—"</p> + +<p>She paused abruptly. The mental picture had recalled to both the evening +on which they last stood together in that golden lamplight.</p> + +<p>Ronnie hesitated, looking at the floor. Then he raised his eyes to +Helen's. "I don't think I could bear it," he said, turned from her +quickly, and went upstairs.</p> + +<p>In his room he scribbled a note.</p> + +<p>"My wife—I am awfully sorry, but I simply <i>had</i> to bolt. Don't be +alarmed. I have gone home to the Grange. I believe, when I am by myself +in the house where we spent the three years I thought so perfect and so +happy, I shall find out what is the matter; I shall get to the very root +of the Upas tree.</p> + +<p>"I know I somehow hurt you horribly on the night I reached home, by +asking you to come to the studio to hear me play my 'cello; <a name="Page_250" id="Page_250"></a>but, before +God, I haven't the faintest idea why!</p> + +<p>"You would not have said what you did, had you known I was ill; but +neither would you have said it, unless it had been true. If it was true +then, it is true now. If it is true now, we can't spend Christmas Day +together.</p> + +<p>"I want you to go to the Dalmains by motor, as soon as you find this, +and have a jolly, restful time with them. You look worn out.</p> + +<p class="author">"RONNIE."</p> + +<p>"P.S.—I am obliged to leave this in my room. I hope you will find it +there. I don't even know where your room is, Helen, in this beastly +hotel."</p> + +<p>Ronnie considered his postscript; then crossed out "beastly" and +substituted "large." But "beastly" still showed, pathetically, beneath +the line. And, by-and-by, the heart of Ronnie's wife, from which all +clouds had suddenly rolled away, understood it, and wept over it, and +kissed it; and thought "beastly" a dear word! It was so <a name="Page_251" id="Page_251"></a>quaintly like +Ronnie to substitute "large" for "beastly."</p> + +<p>All clouds had rolled away, before Helen read the note; for this is what +had happened.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Ronnie had excused himself when lunch was half over.</p> + +<p>Helen let him go, trying to act on Dr. Dick's advice not to worry him by +seeming to watch or follow him.</p> + +<p>So she sat on alone, finishing luncheon, and thus did not see Ronnie +walk out of the front door, carrying his bag.</p> + +<p>Soon afterwards she passed into the hall, and sat dipping into the +papers and thinking over her talk with Dick.</p> + +<p>Presently a page stepped up to her with a letter on a salver.</p> + +<p>Her heart stood still as she saw the stamp, the post-mark, and the +writing. It was from Aubrey Treherne, forwarded from Hollymead.</p> + +<p>Helen was sorely tempted for a moment to burn it unread. She had +suffered so much <a name="Page_252" id="Page_252"></a>through a former letter in that handwriting. She +suddenly realised how cruelly Aubrey's words about Ronnie had, in the +light of Ronnie's subsequent behaviour, eaten into her soul.</p> + +<p>She looked at the fire. She rose and moved towards it, the letter in her +hand.</p> + +<p>Then better counsels prevailed.</p> + +<p>She went slowly upstairs to her sitting-room, closed the door, sat down, +and opened Aubrey's letter.</p> + +<p>It contained a smaller envelope sealed, on which was written: "Read +letter first."</p> + +<p>She opened the folded sheets.<br /><br /><br /></p> + + +<p>"DEAR HELEN,</p> + +<p>"Yes, you are right about God's Word not returning void. Your own words, +I admit, only hardened me; but those at the end of your letter broke me +up. I am so very far removed from light and fellowship, love and +forgiveness. I doubt if I can ever get back into the way of peace.</p> + +<p>"But, anyhow, before the great Feast of<a name="Page_253" id="Page_253"></a> Peace upon earth, goodwill +toward men, I can take a first step by fully confessing the great wrong +I did to you and to your husband rather more than a month ago, on the +evening which he spent at my flat.</p> + +<p>"Possibly you have found it out already; but possibly not, as I hear he +has been very seriously ill.</p> + +<p>"The evening he was here, he was more or less queer and light-headed, +but he was full of you, and of his delight in going home. I suppose this +all helped to madden me. No need to explain why. You know.</p> + +<p>"He had found a letter from you at the <i>Poste Restante</i>; but, rushing +around to his publishers, etc., had not had time to read it.</p> + +<p>"When he remembered it and found it in his pocket-book, he stood with +his back to my stove, in great excitement, and tore it open; I sitting +by.</p> + +<p>"As he unfolded the large sheets of foreign paper, a note flew out from +between them, and fell, unseen by him, to the floor.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254"></a>"I put my foot on it. I gathered, from extracts he read me from the +letter, that this note was of importance.</p> + +<p>"When he found in a postscript that you mentioned an enclosure, he +hunted everywhere for it; not thinking, of course, to look under my +foot.</p> + +<p>"He then concluded, on my instigation, that, after all, you had not +enclosed any note.</p> + +<p>"At the first opportunity I transferred it to my pocket, made an excuse +to leave the room, and read it.</p> + +<p>"Helen, believe me, had I known beforehand the news that note contained, +I don't think I could have been such a fiend.</p> + +<p>"But once having done it, I carried it through. I allowed your husband +to go home in total ignorance of the birth of his son. It was I who put +the word 'astonishing' into his telegram; and, in my letter to you, I +led you to suppose I had heard the news from him.</p> + +<p>"I don't know exactly what I expected to gain from all this. But, in a +condition of <a name="Page_255" id="Page_255"></a>mad despair, I seemed playing my very last card; and I +played it for all it was worth—which apparently was not much!</p> + +<p>"I did plenty of other devilish work that night—chiefly mental +suggestion. This is the only really confessable thing.</p> + +<p>"The letter your husband never saw, is in the enclosed envelope. He will +like to have it now.</p> + +<p>"Thus, as you see, the Word has not returned unto you void. It brings +you the only reparation I can make.</p> + +<p class="author">"AUBREY TREHERNE."</p> + +<p>Helen tore open the sealed envelope, and found her little pencil note, +the tender outpouring to Ronnie, written three days after her baby's +birth.</p> + +<p>So Ronnie never saw it—he never knew! He came home without having the +remotest idea that she had been through anything unusual in his absence. +He had heard no word or hint of the birth of his little son. Yet she had +called him utterly, preposterously, alto<a name="Page_256" id="Page_256"></a>gether, selfish, because he had +quite naturally expected her to be as interested as ever in his pursuits +and pleasures.</p> + +<p>Oh, Ronnie, Ronnie!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>She flew to his room, hoping he had not yet gone out.</p> + +<p>On the table she found a note addressed to herself.</p> + +<p>She tore it open, read it—- then went back into the sitting-room, and +pealed the bell.</p> + +<p>"Send my maid to me at once, and the hall-porter."</p> + +<p>They arrived together.</p> + +<p>Helen had just written a long telegram to her housekeeper.</p> + +<p>She spoke to the hall-porter first.</p> + +<p>"Send off this telegram, please. Then procure the fastest motor-car you +can find, to run me over to Hollymead this afternoon. We can be ready to +start in half-an-hour's time."</p> + +<p>Then she turned to her maid.</p> + +<p>"Jeffreys, we go home for Christmas after <a name="Page_257" id="Page_257"></a>all. Mr. West has gone on by +train. We must pack as promptly as possible, and start in half-an-hour. +We may perhaps get home before him. I doubt whether he can catch +anything down from town before the five o'clock."</p> + +<p>She flew to her room, pressing Ronnie's sad little note to her heart. +All the world looked different! Ah, what would it be, now, to tell him +of his little son! But she must get home before him. Supposing Ronnie +went upstairs alone, and found the baby!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h3> + +<h4>THE FACE IN THE MIRROR</h4> + + +<p>Ronnie caught the three o'clock train from town, at Huntingford, as the +porter had predicted.</p> + +<p>No carriage was at the station, so he had a rather long walk from +Hollymead to the Grange.</p> + +<p>It was a clear, crisp evening and freezing hard. He could feel the frost +crackle under his feet, as he tramped along the country lanes.</p> + +<p>When he came in sight of the lodge, it reminded him of an old-fashioned +Christmas card; the large iron gates, their grey stone supports covered +with moss and lichen and surmounted by queer rampant beasts unknown to +zoology, holding in their stone claws oval shields on which were carved +the ancient arms <a name="Page_259" id="Page_259"></a>of Helen's family; the little ivy-covered house, with +gabled roof and lattice-windows, firelight from within, shining golden +and ruddy on the slight sprinkling of frosty snow.</p> + +<p>As he passed in at the gate he saw the motherly figure of Mrs. Simpkins, +a baby on her arm, appear at the window, lifting her hand to draw down +the crimson blind. Before the blind shut in the bright interior, Ronnie +caught a glimpse of three curly heads round a small Christmas-tree on +the kitchen-table. Simpkins, in his shirt-sleeves, was lighting the +topmost candle.</p> + +<p>Ronnie walked on beneath the chestnuts and beeches, up the long sweep of +the park drive, a dark lonely figure.</p> + +<p>He was very tired; his heart was heavy and sad.</p> + +<p>It had been such a cheery glimpse of home, through the lodge window, +before the red blind shut it in. Simpkins was a lucky fellow. Mrs. +Simpkins looked so kind and comfortable, with the baby's head nestling +against her capacious bosom.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260"></a>Ronnie turned to look back at the brightly-lighted cottage. The ruddy +glow from the blind, fell on the snow. He wondered whether there was a +Upas tree in that humble home. Surely not! A Upas tree and a +Christmas-tree could hardly find place in the same home. The tree of +Light and Love, would displace the tree of subtle poison.</p> + +<p>He turned wearily from the distant light and plodded on.</p> + +<p>Then he remembered that, in her last letter, Helen had said: "Ronnie, we +will have a Christmas-tree this Christmas." Why had Helen said that? He +had fully intended to ask her, but had not thought of it from that hour +to this.</p> + +<p>Possibly it was just a wish to yield to his whim in the matter. Perhaps +she was planning to have all the little Simpkins kids up to the house.</p> + +<p>Well, if Helen spent Christmas with the Dalmains, she would come in for +little Geoff's Christmas-tree, which would certainly be a beauty.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261"></a>He plodded heavily on. He felt extraordinarily lonely. Would Helen miss +him? Hardly. You do not miss a selfish person. He would miss +Helen—horribly; but then Helen was not selfish. She was quite the most +unselfish person he had ever known.</p> + +<p>He went over in his mind all the times when Helen had instantly given up +a thing at his wish. Amongst others, he remembered how, on that spring +morning so long ago, when he had told her of his new book and of his +plan, she had been wanting to tell him something, yet he had allowed her +interest to remain untold, when she threw herself heart and soul into +his. He began to wonder what it could have been; and whether it would be +too late to ask her now.</p> + +<p>At last he reached the house, and felt slightly cheered to see lights +and fires within. He had almost anticipated darkness.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Blake herself opened the door, resplendent in black satin; lavender +ribbons in her lace cap.</p> + +<p>"La, sir!" she said. "Fancy you walking <a name="Page_262" id="Page_262"></a>from the station! You must +please to excuse Simpkins being out. He has some Christmasing on at the +lodge, for his fam'ly."</p> + +<p>"I know," said Ronnie. "I saw a Christmas-tree as I passed. I shall not +require Simpkins. Blake, is there a fire in the studio?"</p> + +<p>"There is, sir, a fine one, for the good of the piano. There is also a +fire in the sitting-room, sir, where I will at once send in some tea."</p> + +<p>"No, not there," said Ronnie quickly. "I will have tea in the studio."</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Blake was firm. "That I couldn't ever, sir! Mrs. West wouldn't +wish it. She thinks so much of you having tea in her sitting-room, and +beside her fire; which is much more, so to say, cosy than that great +unfurnished room, all looking-glass."</p> + +<p>At mention of the mirror Ronnie shivered, and yielded. He had almost +forgotten the mirror.</p> + +<p>So he sat in his own favourite chair, while Blake stood and poured out +his first cup of tea, then left him to the utter loneliness of being in +that room without Helen.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263"></a>It is doubtful whether Ronnie had ever loved his wife so passionately +as he loved her while he experienced, for the first time, what it was +like to be without her, in the room where they had hitherto always been +together.</p> + +<p>Everything he touched, everything at which he looked, spoke of Helen; +forcing upon him the consciousness of the sweetness of her presence, and +the consequent hardness of her absence.</p> + +<p>Yet he had brought this hardness on himself. She had said: "Wouldn't it +be rather lovely to have tea together?" But he had answered: "I don't +think I could bear it." And now he did not know how to bear the fact +that she was not with him.</p> + +<p>Then he saw the chair against which he had leaned his 'cello, and with a +thrill of comfort he remembered the Infant of Prague.</p> + +<p>How had it fared all this time, in its canvas bag? Perhaps no one had +remembered even to put it back into that.</p> + +<p>Having hastily swallowed his tea, lest Blake should arrive at the studio +to inquire <a name="Page_264" id="Page_264"></a>what had been amiss with it, Ronnie hurried down the +corridor, entered the long, low room, and turned on the electric light. +As before, a great log fire burned on the hearth; but he needed more +light now, than mere fitful fire-gleams. He wanted to examine the +Infant.</p> + +<p>He looked round the room, and there, on a wide settee under one of the +windows, lay a polished rosewood 'cello-case.</p> + +<p>Ronnie, springing forward, bent down eagerly. The key was in the lock. +He turned it, and lifted the lid.</p> + +<p>There lay the Infant, shining and beautiful as ever, in a +perfectly-fitting bed, lined with soft white velvet. The whole thing +carried out exactly Ronnie's favourite description of his 'cello: "just +like the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur." The +open rosewood case, with its soft white lining, was the bursting bur; +and within lay his beautiful Infant!</p> + +<p>Helen had done this.</p> + +<p>Ronnie's pleasure was largely tinged with <a name="Page_265" id="Page_265"></a>pain. Helen, who did not like +his 'cello, had done this to please him, yet was not here to see his +pleasure.</p> + +<p>Ronnie drew forth the bow from its place in the lid, opened a little +nest which held the rosin, then tenderly lifted the Infant of Prague and +carried it to the light.</p> + +<p>At first sight, its shining surface appeared perfect as ever. Then, +looking very closely, and knowing exactly where to look, Ronnie saw a +place just above the <i>f</i> hole on the right, where a blow had evidently +been struck deeply into the 'cello. A strip of wood, four inches long, +by one inch wide, had been let in, then varnished so perfectly that the +mend—probably the work of a hundred years ago—could only be seen in a +good light, and <i>by one who knew exactly where to look</i>.</p> + +<p>Ronnie stood with grave face gazing at the Infant.</p> + +<p>What did it all mean?</p> + +<p>He remembered with the utmost vividness every detail of the scene in the +mirror.</p> + +<p>Had he thought-read from his 'cello the <a name="Page_266" id="Page_266"></a>happenings of a century before? +Had it transmitted to his over-wrought brain, the scene in which it had +once played so prominent a part?</p> + +<p>Had it, before then, in the Leipzig flat, imparted to Aubrey +Treherne—unconsciously to himself—an accurate mental picture of its +former owner?</p> + +<p>Ronnie mused on this, and wondered. Then the desire rose strong within +him to hear once more the golden voice of the Infant, even at the risk +of calling up again those ghostly phantoms of a vanished past.</p> + +<p>He drew the Florentine chair into the centre of the room.</p> + +<p>He took his seat on the embossed leather of crimson and gold.</p> + +<p>He glanced at his reflection. His face was whiter than it had been five +weeks ago, when he returned, deep bronzed, from Africa. His hair, too, +was longer than it ought to be; though not so long as the heavy black +locks of the 'cellist of that past reflection.</p> + +<p>Ronnie's rough tweed suit and shooting <a name="Page_267" id="Page_267"></a>boots, were a curious contrast +to the satin knee-breeches, silken hose, and diamond shoe-buckles he +remembered in his vision; yet his manner of holding the 'cello, assumed +without conscious thought, and the positions of his knees and feet, were +so precisely those of that quaint old-time figure, that Ronnie never +doubted that when he raised the bow and his fingers bit into the +strings, the flood of harmony would be the same.</p> + +<p>He waited for the strong tremor to seize his wrist.</p> + +<p>It did not come.</p> + +<p>He sounded the four open strings, slowly, one after the other.</p> + +<p>Yes, the tones were very pure, very rich, very clear.</p> + +<p>Then he took courage, pressed his fingers into the finger-board, and +began to play.</p> + +<p>Alas, poor Infant of Prague!</p> + +<p>Alas, poor <i>born</i> musician, who preferred doing things he had never +learned to do!</p> + +<p>The exquisite rise and fall of harmony, came not again.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268"></a>Bitterly disappointed, Ronnie waited, staring into the mirror.</p> + +<p>But a rather weary, very lonely, and exceedingly modern young man stared +back at him.</p> + +<p>At last he realised that he could no longer play the 'cello by +inspiration. So he began very carefully feeling for the notes.</p> + +<p>The Infant squeaked occasionally, and wailed a little; but on the whole +it behaved very well; and, after half-an-hour's work, having found out +the key which enabled him to use chiefly the open strings, Ronnie +managed to play right through, very fairly in tune, "O come, all ye +faithful, joyful and triumphant!"</p> + +<p>This gave him extraordinary pleasure. It seemed such a certainty of +possession, to be able to pick out all the notes for himself.</p> + +<p>He longed that Helen might be there to hear.</p> + +<p>The Infant of Prague grew dearer to him than ever. He was now mastering +it himself, independent of the antics of an old person <a name="Page_269" id="Page_269"></a>of a century +ago, bowing away in the mirror.</p> + +<p>He tried again; and this time he sang the words of the first verse, as +he played. His really fine baritone blended well with the richness of +the silver strings.</p> + +<p>The words had occasionally to wait, suspended as it were in mid-air, +while he felt about wildly for the note on the 'cello; but, once found, +the note was true and good, and likely to lead more or less easily to +the next.</p> + +<p>A listener, in the corridor outside, pressed her hands to her breast, +uncertain whether she felt the more inclined to laugh or to weep.</p> + +<p>Ronnie began his verse again.</p> + +<p> +"O come ... all ye ... faithful ...<br /> +joyful and tri ... tri ... tri ... <i>um</i><br /> +... phant ... O come, ye, O come ye,<br /> +to Beth ... Beth ... Beth ...<br /> +Be—eth—le—<i>hem!</i>"<br /> +</p> + +<p>He paused, exhausted by the effort of drawing Bethlehem complete, out of +the complication of the Infant's four vibrating strings.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270"></a>He paused, and, lifting his eyes, looked into the mirror—and saw +therein the face of a woman, watching him from beside the door; a lovely +face, all smiles, and tears, and tenderness.</p> + +<p>At first he gazed, unable to believe his eyes. But, when her eyes met +his, and she knew that he saw her, she moved quickly forward, kneeled +down beside him, and—it was the face of his wife, all flooded with glad +tenderness, which, resting against his shoulder, looked up into his.</p> + +<p>She had spoken no word; yet at the first sight of her Ronnie knew that +the cloud which had been between them, was between no longer.</p> + +<p>"Helen," he said; "Oh, Helen!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h3> + +<h4>UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN</h4> + + +<p>Ronnie laid down his bow, and put his right arm round his wife.</p> + +<p>He still held the precious Infant of Prague between his knees, his left +hand on the ebony finger-board.</p> + +<p>"My darling!" Helen said. "So we shall be at home for Christmas after +all. How glad I am!"</p> + +<p>He looked at her dumbly, and waited.</p> + +<p>He felt like the prodigal, who had planned to suggest as his only +possible desert, a place among the hired servants, but was so lifted +into realisation of sonship by the father's welcome, that perforce he +left that sentence unspoken.</p> + +<p>So Ronnie looked at her dumbly, reading the utter love for him in her +eyes.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272"></a>Back came the words of his hymn, replete with fresh meaning.</p> + +<p> +"O come, all ye faithful,<br /> +Joyful and triumphant!"<br /> +</p> + +<p>They were such faithful eyes—Helen's; and now they seemed filled with +triumphant joy.</p> + +<p>"Ronnie," she said, "do you remember how I wrote to you at Leipzig, that +this Christmas we would have a Christmas-tree? Did not you wonder, +darling, why I said that?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Ronnie. "I thought of it this evening when I saw a +Christmas-tree at the lodge. I had meant to ask you the night I reached +home, but I did not remember then."</p> + +<p>"Ah, if you had," she said, "if you only had!"</p> + +<p>"Well?" he questioned. "Tell me now."</p> + +<p>"Ronnie, do you remember that in that letter I said I had something to +tell you, and <a name="Page_273" id="Page_273"></a>that I enclosed a note, written some weeks before, +telling you this thing?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear," said Ronnie. "But you forgot to enclose the note. It was +not there. I tore the envelope right open; I hunted high and low. Then +we concluded you had after all considered it unimportant."</p> + +<p>"It was all-important, Ronnie; and it <i>was</i> there."</p> + +<p>"It was—<i>where</i>?" asked Ronnie.</p> + +<p>"Under Aubrey's foot.... Oh, hush, darling, hush! We must not say hard +things of a man who has confessed, and who is bitterly repentant. I +can't tell you the whole story now; you shall hear every detail later; +but he saw it fall from the letter, as you opened it. He was tempted, +first, to cover it with his foot; then, to put it in his pocket; and, +after he had read it, he wrote to me implying that you had told him the +news it contained; so, when you arrived home, how could I possibly +imagine that you did not know it?"</p> + +<p>"Did not know <i>what?</i>" asked Ronnie.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274"></a>She drew a folded paper from her pocket.</p> + +<p>"My darling, this will tell you best. It is the note intended to reach +you at Leipzig; it is the note which, until this afternoon, I had all +along believed you to have received."</p> + +<p>She put her note into his hand.</p> + +<p>"I hope you will be able to read it by this light, Ronnie. I was very +weak when I wrote it. I could only use pencil."</p> + +<p>Ronnie unfolded it gravely.</p> + +<p>She knelt, with bowed head, beside him. She dared not watch his face.</p> + +<p>She heard his breath come short and fast. He moved his knees, and let go +his 'cello.</p> + +<p>The Infant of Prague slipped unnoticed to the floor.</p> + +<p>When he read of the birth of his little son, with a hard choking sob, +Ronnie turned and gathered her to him, holding her close, yet eagerly +reading the letter over her head; reading it, to its very last word.</p> + +<p>Then, dropping the letter, he clasped her to him, with a strength and a +depth of tenderness such as she had never before known in<a name="Page_275" id="Page_275"></a> Ronnie. And +his first words were not what Helen had expected.</p> + +<p>"Helen," he said, with another desperate tearless sob, "oh, to think +that you had to go through <i>that</i>—alone!"</p> + +<p>"My darling boy," she answered, "don't worry about that! It is all over, +now; and it is so true—oh, <i>so</i> true, Ronnie—that the anguish is no +more remembered in the greatness of the joy."</p> + +<p>"But I can't forget," said Ronnie—"I shall never forget—that my wife +bore the suffering, the danger, the weakness, and I was not there to +share it. I did not even know what she was going through."</p> + +<p>"Ronnie dear—think of your little son."</p> + +<p>"I can think of nothing of mine just yet," he answered, "excepting of my +wife."</p> + +<p>She gave in to his mood, and waited; letting him hold her close in +perfect silence.</p> + +<p>It was strangely sweet to Helen, because it was so completely +unexpected. She had been prepared for a moment of intense surprise, +followed by a rapture of pride and <a name="Page_276" id="Page_276"></a>delight; then a wild rush to the +nursery to see his first-born. She was quite willing, now her part was +over, that her part should be forgotten. It was as unexpected as it was +comfortingly precious, that Ronnie should be thus stricken by the +thought of her pain, and of her need of him to help her bear it.</p> + +<p>At last he said: "Helen, I see it all now. It was the Upas tree indeed: +utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish!"</p> + +<p>"My darling, no!" she cried. "Oh, don't be so unjust to yourself! When I +used those terrible words, I thought you had had my letter, had come +home knowing it all, yet absorbed completely in other things. Misled by +Aubrey, I cruelly misjudged you, Ronnie. It was not selfish to go; it +was not selfish to be away. You did not know, or you would not have +gone. I was glad you should not know, glad you should be away, so that I +could bear it alone, without hindering your work; letting you find the +joy when you reached home, without having had any of <a name="Page_277" id="Page_277"></a>the hardness or +the worry. I wished it to be so, my darling boy—and I was glad."</p> + +<p>Then Ronnie gently put his wife out of his arms, and took her sweet face +between his hands, looking long into her eyes, before he made reply. And +Helen, steadfastly returning his gaze, saw a look growing in her +husband's face, such as she had never yet seen there, and knew, even +before he began to speak, what he was going to say; and her protective +love, longing as ever to shield him from pain, cried out: "Oh, must I +let him realise that?"</p> + +<p>But, at last, through the guidance of wiser Hands than hers, the matter +had passed beyond Helen's control.</p> + +<p>"My wife," said Ronnie slowly, "when I called it 'the Upas tree indeed,' +I did not mean the <i>one</i> act of going off in ignorance and leaving you +alone during the whole of that time, when any man who cared at all would +wish to be at hand, to bear, and share, and guard. I do not brand that +as selfish; because you purposely withheld from me <a name="Page_278" id="Page_278"></a>the truth, and bid +me go. But <i>why</i> did you withhold it? Why, after the first shock, did +you feel glad to face the prospect of bearing it alone; glad I should be +away? Ah, here we find the very roots of the Upas tree! Was it not +because, during the whole of our married life, I have been cheerfully, +complacently selfish? I have calmly accepted as the rule of the home, +that I should hear of no worries which you could keep from me, tread +upon no thorns which you could clear out of my path, bear no burdens +which your loving hands could lift and carry out of sight. Your +interests, your pleasures, your friends, your pursuits, all have been +swept on one side, if they seemed in the smallest degree likely to +interfere with my work, my desires, my career. You have lived for +me—absolutely. I have lived for myself. True, we have loved each other +tenderly; we have been immensely happy. But, all the while, the shadow +of the Upas tree was there. My very love was selfish! It was sheer joy +to love you, because you are so sweetly, so altogether, <a name="Page_279" id="Page_279"></a>lovable. But +when did I—because of my love for you—do one single thing at any cost +to self? I was utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish! You knew +this. You knew I hated pain, or worry, or anything which put my +comfortable life out of gear. So you gladly let me go, leaving you to +bear it all alone. You knew that, had you told me, I should have given +up my book and stayed with you; because my self-love would have been +more wounded by going than by staying. But you also knew that during all +those months you would have had to listen while I bemoaned the +circumstances, and bewailed my plot. You knew the bloom would be taken +off the coming joy, so you preferred to let me go. Oh, Helen, is not +this true?"</p> + +<p>She bent her head and kissed his hand. She was weeping silently. She +could not say it was not true.</p> + +<p>"It was the Upas tree indeed," said Ronnie.</p> + +<p>"Darling," she whispered, "it was my fault too—"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280"></a>"Hush," he said. "There are faults too noble to be accounted faults. +But—if you think you were at all to blame—you must atone, by truly and +faithfully helping in my fight to root up the Upas tree."</p> + +<p>"Ronnie," she said, "a pair of baby hands will help us both. We must +learn to live life at its highest, for the sake of our little son."</p> + +<p>Then, knowing he had endured as much heart-searching as a man could bear +and be the better for it, she said, smiling:</p> + +<p>"Ronnie, his funny little hands are so absurdly like yours."</p> + +<p>"Like <i>mine</i>?" repeated Ronnie, as one awaking slowly from a sad dream, +to a blissful reality. "Why are they like mine?"</p> + +<p>"Because he is a tiny miniature of you, you dear, silly old boy! You do +not seem to understand that you are actually a father, Ronnie, with a +little son of your own!"</p> + +<p>She looked up into his worn face, and saw the young glad joy of life +creep slowly back into it.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281"></a>"And his mouth, darling—his little mouth is just like yours; only, as +I told you in the letter, when I kiss it—it does not kiss back, +Ronnie."</p> + +<p>"What?" cried Ronnie. "What?" Then he understood; and, this time, it was +no mirage. Ronnie's desert wanderings were over.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"But don't you want to see your son?" Helen asked, presently.</p> + +<p>Ronnie leapt up.</p> + +<p>"See him? Why, of course I do! Oh, come on!... Helen! What does one say +to a very young baby?"</p> + +<p>Helen followed him upstairs, laughing.</p> + +<p>"That entirely depends upon circumstances. One usually says: 'Did it?' +'Is it then?' or 'Was it?' But I almost think present conditions require +a more definite statement of fact. I fancy one would say: 'How do you +do, baby? <i>I</i> am your papa!' ... This way, Ronnie, in my own old +<a name="Page_282" id="Page_282"></a>nurseries. Oh, darling, I am afraid I am going to cry! But you must not +mind. They will only be tears of unutterable joy. Think what it will be +to me, to see my baby in his father's arms!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283"></a></p> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX</h3> + +<h4>GOOD-NIGHT TO THE INFANT OF PRAGUE</h4> + + +<p>The last hour of Christmas Eve ticked slowly to its close.</p> + +<p>On all around grew that sense of the herald angels, bending over a +waiting world, poised upon outstretched wings. The hush had fallen which +carries the mind away to the purple hills of Bethlehem, the watching +shepherds, the quiet folds, the sudden glory in the sky.</p> + +<p>The old Grange was closing its eyes at last, and settling itself to +slumber.</p> + +<p>One by one the brightly lighted windows darkened; the few remaining +lights moved upwards.</p> + +<p>The Hollymead Waits had duly arrived, and played their annual Christmas +hymns. They had won gold from Ronnie, by ministering to his new-found +proud delight in his <a name="Page_284" id="Page_284"></a>infant son. The village blacksmith, who played the +cornet and also acted spokesman for the band, had closed the selections +of angelic music, by exclaiming hoarsely, under cover of the night: "A +merry Christmas and a 'appy New Year, to Mrs. West, to Mr. West, and to +<i>Master</i> West!"</p> + +<p>Ronnie dashed out jubilant. The Waits departed well-content.</p> + +<p>Helen said: "You dear old silly!"</p> + +<p>"Master West," wakened by the cornet, also had something to say; but he +confided his remarks to his nurse, and was soon hushed back to slumber.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>In the studio, the fire burned low.</p> + +<p>The reflections in the long mirror, were indefinite and dim.</p> + +<p>The Infant of Prague lay forgotten on the floor.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>As midnight drew very near, the door of the studio was pushed softly +open, and Helen <a name="Page_285" id="Page_285"></a>came in, wearing a soft white wrapper; a lighted candle +in her hand.</p> + +<p>She placed the candle on a table; then, stooping, carefully lifted +Ronnie's 'cello from the floor, laid it in its rosewood case, and stood +looking down upon it. Then, smiling, touched its silver strings, with +loving fingers.</p> + +<p>"Poor Infant of Prague!" she said. "Has Ronnie forgotten even to put you +to bed? Never mind! To-morrow you and he shall sing Christmas hymns +together, while I and his little son listen and admire."</p> + +<p>She closed the case. Then some impulse made her open it again. Her sweet +eyes filled with tears. No one was there to see. Ronnie's wife knelt +down and gently kissed the unconscious, shining face of the Infant of +Prague.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Turning from the settee beneath the window, she saw herself reflected in +the mirror—a tall fair figure in trailing garments, soft and white.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286"></a>She held the candle high above her head, looked at her own reflection, +and smiled.</p> + +<p>She was glad she was so lovely—for Ronnie's sake.</p> + +<p>Ronnie's love to-night was very wonderful.</p> + +<p>She moved towards the door, but paused in passing, to look into the +smouldering embers of the fire.</p> + +<p>At that moment the clocks struck midnight. She heard the Westminster +chimes, up on the landing.</p> + +<p>It was Christmas Day.</p> + +<p>"Unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given," murmured Helen. "Oh, +holy Christ of Christmas, may the new life to come be very perfect for +my Ronnie, my baby, and me."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Helen!" came Ronnie's eager happy voice, shouting over the stairs. "I +say, <i>Helen</i>! Where are you?"</p> + +<p>"Coming, darling!" she called, passing out of the studio, and moving +swiftly down the corridor.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287"></a>Ronnie, on the landing, was leaning over the banisters, an expression +of comic dismay on his face.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I say!" he whispered. "I've done it now! I believe I've woke the +baby!"</p> + +<p>Helen, mounting the stairs, paused to look up at him, love and laughter +in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Undoubtedly you have, you naughty boy! No shouting allowed here now, +after dark. But what do you think I was doing? Why, I was in the studio, +putting to bed the Infant of Prague."<br /><br /><br /></p> + + + + +<h3>THE END.</h3> + +<p><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288"></a><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289"></a></p> +<h4><i>Almost One Million Copies of Mrs. Barclay's Popular Novels Printed</i>.</h4> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h3>By Florence L. Barclay</h3> + +<h3>The Rosary</h3> + +<p><b>Cr. 8vo. $1.35 net. ($1.5O by mail.) Holiday Edition, with +Illustrations in Color by Blendon Campbell. $2.50 net. By mail, $2.75.</b></p> + +<p>"An ideal love story—one that justifies the publishing business, +refreshes the heart of the reviewer, strengthens faith in the outcome of +the great experiment of putting humanity on earth. <i>The Rosary</i> is a +rare book, a source of genuine delight."—<i>Syracuse Post-Standard.</i></p> + +<h3>The Mistress of Shenstone</h3> + +<p><b>Cr. 8vo. $1.35 net. ($1.50 by mail.) Holiday Edition, with 8 +Illustrations in Color by F.H. Townsend. $2.50 net. By mail, $2.75</b></p> + +<p>"A worthy successor to <i>The Rosary</i>."—<i>Phila. Press</i>.</p> + +<h3>The Following of the Star</h3> + +<p><b>With Frontispiece by F.H. Townsend. Cr. 8vo. $1.35 net. ($1.50 by +mail.) Holiday Edition, with 8 Illustrations in Color by F.H. Townsend, +$2.50 net. By mail $2.75</b></p> + +<p>"A master work."—<i>Chicago Inter-Ocean</i>.</p> + +<h3>Through the Postern Gate</h3> + +<h4>(Under the Mulberry Tree)</h4> + +<p class='center'>A Romance in Seven Days</p> + +<p><b>With 9 Illustrations in Color by F.H. Townsend. $1.35 net. ($1.50 by +mail.)</b></p> + +<p>"A sweet and appealing love story told in a wholesome, simple +way."—<i>Literary Digest</i>.</p> + +<h3>The Upas Tree</h3> + +<h4>A Christmas Story for All the Year</h4> + +<p><b>With Frontispiece in Color. $1.00 net. By mail, $1.10</b></p> + +<p>A story of rare charm, powerful in conception, compelling in narrative, +and wholesome in effect.</p> + +<p class='center'>New York G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS London</p> + +<p><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290"></a></p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h3><i>Myrtle Reed's New Book</i></h3> + +<h3>The White Shield</h3> + +<p class='center'>By the Author of "Lavender and Old Lace," "The Master's Violin," etc.</p> + +<p>These fascinating bits of fiction reflect the characteristics of the +writer: the same vivid imagination, the quick transition from pathos to +humor, the facility of utterance, the wholesome sentiment, the purity of +thought, the delicacy of touch, the spontaneous wit which has endeared +Myrtle Reed to thousands of readers.</p> + +<p><i>Frontispiece in color and 4 other illustrations by Dalton Stevens +beautifully printed and bound</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Cloth, $1.50 net. By mail, $1.65</i></p> + +<p><b>Uniform with "A Weaver of Dreams"</b></p> + +<p class='center'>G.P. Putnam's Sons New York<br /> +New York London</p> + +<p><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291"></a></p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4>"<i>A born teller of stories. She certainly has the right stuff in +her.</i>"—London Standard.</h4> + + +<h3>The Way of an Eagle</h3> + +<h4>By</h4> + +<h3>E.M. Dell</h3> + +<p class='center'><i>$1.35 net By mail, $1.50</i></p> + +<p>"In these days of overmuch involved plot and diction in the writing of +novels, a book like this brings a sense of refreshment, as much by the +virility and directness of its style as by the interest of the story it +tells.... The human interest of the book is absorbing. The descriptions +of life in India and England are delightful. ... But it is the intense +humanity of the story—above all, that of its dominating character, Nick +Ratcliffe, that will win for it a swift appreciation."—<i>Boston +Transcript.</i></p> + +<p>"Well written, wholesome, overflowing with sentiment, yet never mawkish. +Lovers of good adventure will enjoy its varied excitement, while the +frankly romantic will peruse its pages with joy."—<i>Chicago +Record-Herald.</i></p> + +<p><i>Frontispiece in Color by John Cassel</i></p> + + +<p class='center'>G.P. Putnam's Sons New York<br /> +New York London</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<p><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292"></a></p> + +<p class='center'><i>Endorsed by A.C. Benson, A.E.W. Mason, W.J. Locke</i></p> + + +<h3>Beyond the Law</h3> + +<h4>By Miriam Alexander</h4> + +<p class='center'><i>The Great Prize Novel. Awarded Prize of $1,250.00</i></p> + +<p class='center'><i>Frontispiece in Color. $1.35 net. By mail, $1.50</i></p> + + +<p>A lively, unaffected, and interesting story of good craftsmanship, +showing imagination and insight, with both vivid and dramatic qualities.</p> + +<p>The scene is laid in Ireland and in France, the time is the William of +Orange period, and deals with the most cruel persecution against the +Catholics of Ireland.</p> + +<p>"The great charm of the story is that it is so essentially Irish. +Country and people are so lovingly, so feelingly, so understanding +described. The characters are strikingly original creations, finely +conceived and consistently developed. Its literary style is all that the +most critical would ask."—<i>Baltimore Sun.</i></p> + +<p class='center'>G.P. Putnam's Sons New York<br /> +New York London</p> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Upas Tree, by Florence L. 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Barclay + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Upas Tree + A Christmas Story for all the Year + +Author: Florence L. Barclay + +Release Date: August 6, 2005 [EBook #16454] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UPAS TREE *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Janet Blenkinship and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + +[Illustration: "That figure was not his own." + +From a drawing by F.H. Townsend. (_page 202_)] + +The Upas Tree + +_A Christmas Story for all the Year_ + +By + +Florence L. Barclay + +_Author of "The Rosary," etc_ + + +G.P. Putnam's Sons + +New York and London + +The Knickerbocker Press + +1912 + +COPYRIGHT, 1912 + +BY + +FLORENCE L. BARCLAY + + +The Knickerbocker Press, New York + +To + +V.C.B. + +53-22146 CONTENTS + +PART I + +CHAPTER PAGE + + I.--WHICH SHALL SPEAK FIRST? 13 + + II.--THE SOB OF THE WOMAN 29 + + III.--HELEN TAKES THE INITIATIVE 40 + + IV.--FIRELIGHT IN THE STUDIO 44 + + +PART II + + V.--THE INFANT OF PRAGUE 67 + + VI.--AUBREY PUTS DOWN HIS FOOT 97 + + VII.--A FRIEND IN NEED 113 + +VIII.--PARADISE LOST 129 + + IX.--THE PINNACLE OF THE TEMPLE 137 + + +PART III + + X.--RONNIE ARRIVES IN A FOG 149 + + XI.--THE MIRAGE 160 + + XII.--A FRIEND IN DEED 174 + + XIII.--RONNIE FACES THE UPAS 192 + + XIV.--AS IN A MIRROR 200 + + +PART IV + + XV.--"THE FOG LIFTS" 209 + + XVI.--"HE _MUST_ REMEMBER" 223 + + XVII.--"HE NEVER KNEW!" 246 + +XVIII.--THE FACE IN THE MIRROR 258 + + XIX.--UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN 271 + + XX.--GOOD-NIGHT TO THE INFANT OF + PRAGUE 283 + + + + +Part I CHAPTER I + +WHICH SHALL SPEAK FIRST? + + +Ronald West stood at the window of his wife's sitting-room, looking +across the bright garden-borders to the wide park beyond, and wondering +how on earth he should open the subject of which his mind had been full +during their morning ride. + +He had swung off his own horse a few moments before; thrown the bridle +to a waiting groom, and made his way round to her stirrup. Then he had +laid his hand upon Silverheels' mane, and looking up into his wife's +glowing, handsome face, he had said: "May I come to your room for a +talk, Helen? I have something very important to tell you." + +Helen had smiled down upon him. + +"I thought my cavalier was miles away from his horse and his wife, +during most of the ride. But, if he proposes taking me on the same +distant journey, he shall be forgiven. Also, I have something to tell +_you_, Ronnie, and I see the turret clock gives us an hour before +luncheon. I must scribble out a message for the village; then I will +come to you at once, without stopping to change." + +She laid her hand on his shoulder, and dropped lightly to the ground. +Then, telling the groom to wait, she passed into the hall. + +Ronald left her standing at the table, walked into the sitting-room +alone, and suddenly realised that when you have thought of a thing +continuously, day and night, during the best part of a week, and kept it +to yourself, it is not easy to begin explaining it to another +person--even though that other person be your always kind, always +understanding, altogether perfect wife! + +He had forgotten to leave his hat and gloves in the hall. He now tossed +them into a chair--Helen's own particular chair it so happened--but kept +his riding-crop in his hand, and thwacked his leather gaiters with it, +as he stood in the bay window. + +It was such a perfect spring morning! The sun shone in through the +old-fashioned lattice panes. + +Some silly old person of a bygone century had scratched with a diamond +on one of these a rough cross, and beneath it the motto: _In hoc vince_. + +Ronald had inveighed against this. If Helen's old ancestor, having +nothing better to do, had wanted to write down a Latin motto, he should +have put it in his pocket-book, or, better still, on the even more +transitory pages of the blotter, instead of scribbling on the beautiful +diamond panes of the old Grange windows. But Helen had laughed and said: +"I should think he lived before the time of blotters, dear! No doubt the +morning sun was shining on the glass, Ronnie, as he stood at the +window. It was of the cross gleaming in the sunlight, that he wrote: _In +this conquer_. If we could but remember it, the path of self-sacrifice +and clear shining is always the way to victory." + +Helen invariably stood up for her ancestors, which was annoying to a +very modern young man who, not being aware of possessing any, considered +ancestors unnecessary and obsolete. + +But to-day the glittering letters shone out to him as an omen. + +He meant to conquer, in this, as in all else. + +It was curious that Helen should have chanced upon the simile of a +distant journey. Another good omen! _In hoc vince!_ + +He heard her coming. + +Now--how should he begin? He must be very tactful. He must break it to +her gently. + +Helen, closing the door behind her, came slowly down the sunny room. The +graceful lines of her tall figure looked well, in the severe simplicity +of her riding-habit. Her mass of beautiful hair was tucked away beneath +her riding-hat. But nothing could take from the calm sweetness of her +face, nor the steady expectant kindness of her eyes. Helen's eyes always +looked out upon the world, as if they expected to behold a Vision +Beautiful. + +As she moved towards the bay window, she was considering whether she +would decide to have her say first, or whether she would let Ronnie +begin. Her wonderful news was so all-important. Having made up her mind +that the time had come when she might at last share it with Ronnie, it +seemed almost impossible to wait one moment before telling him. On the +other hand, it would be so absorbing to them both, that probably +Ronnie's subject would be allowed to lapse, completely forgotten and +unmentioned. Nothing which was of even the most transitory interest to +Ronnie, ever met this fate at his wife's hands. Therefore the very +certainty that her news would outweigh his, inclined her to let him +speak first. + +She was spared the responsibility of decision. + +Ronald, turning quickly, faced his wife. Hesitation seemed futile; +promptness, essential. _In hoc vince!_ + +"Helen," he said, "I want to go to Central Africa." + +Helen looked at him in silence, during a moment of immense astonishment. + +Then she lifted his hat and gloves, laid them upon a table, seated +herself in her easy-chair, and carefully flicked some specks of dust +from her riding-habit. + +"That is a long way to want to go, darling," she said, quietly. "But I +can see you think something of imperative importance is calling you +there. Sit down and tell me all about it, right from the beginning. It +is a far cry from our happy, beautiful life here, to Central Africa. You +have jumped me to the goal, without any knowledge of the way. Now +suppose you take me gently along your mental route." + +Ronald flung himself, with a sigh of relief, into the deep basket-work +chair opposite Helen's. His boyish face cleared visibly; then +brightened into enthusiasm. He stretched out his legs, put his hands +behind his head, and looked admiringly across at his wife. + +"Helen, you are so perfectly splendid in always understanding, always +making it quite easy for a fellow to tell you things. You have a way of +looking past all minor details, straight to the great essentials. Most +women would stand----" + +"Never mind what most women would do, Ronnie. I never stand, if I can +sit down! It is a waste of useful energy. But you must tell me 'the +great essentials,' as they appear to you, if I am to view them properly. +Why do you want to go to Central Africa?" + +Ronald leapt up and stood with his back to the mantel-piece. + +"Helen, I have a new plot; a quite wonderful love-story; better than +anything I have done yet. But the scene is laid in Central Africa, and I +must go out there to get the setting vivid and correct. You remember how +thrilled we were the other day, by the account of that missionary chap, +who disappeared into the long grass, thirteen feet high, over twenty +years ago; lived and worked among the natives, cut off from all +civilisation; then, at last, crawled out again and saw a railway train +for the first time in twenty-three years; got on board, and came home, +full of wonderful tales of his experiences? Well--you know how, after he +had been out there a few years, he found he desperately needed a wife; +remembered a plucky girl he had known when he was a boy in England, and +managed to get a letter home, asking her to come out to him? She came, +and safely reached the place appointed, at the fringe of the wild +growth. There she waited several months. But at last the man who had +called to her in his need, crawled out of the long grass, took her to +himself, and they crawled in again--man and wife--and were seen no more, +until they reappeared many years later. Well--that true story has given +me the idea of a plot, which will, I verily believe, take the world by +storm! So original and thrilling! Far beyond any missionary +love-stories." + +Helen's calm eyes looked into the excited shining of his. + +"Dear, why shouldn't a missionary's love-story be as exciting as any +other? I don't quite see how you can better the strangely enthralling +tale to which we listened." + +"Ah, don't you?" cried Ronald West. "That's because you are not a writer +of romances! My dear girl, _two_ men crawled out of the long grass +thirteen feet high, at the place where the woman was waiting! Two +men--do you see? And the man who crawled out first was _not_ the man who +had sent for her! _He_ turned up just too late. Now, do you see?" + +"I see," said Helen. "Thirteen is always apt to be an unlucky number." + +"Oh, don't joke!" cried Ronald. "I haven't time to tell you, now, how it +all works out. But it's quite the strongest thing I've thought of yet. +And do you see what it means to me? Think of the weird, mysterious +atmosphere of Central Africa, as a setting for a really strong +love-interest. Imagine three quite modern, present-day people, learning +to know their own hearts and each other's, fighting out the crisis of +their lives according to the accepted rules and standards of twentieth +century civilisation--yet all amongst the wild primitive savagery of +uncivilised tribes, and the extraordinary primeval growths of the +unexplored jungles, where plants ape animals, and animals ape men, and +all nature rears its head with a loose rein, as if defying method, law, +order and construction! Why, merely to walk through some of the tropical +houses at Kew gives one a sort of lawless feeling! If I stay long among +the queer gnarled plants--all spiky and speckled and hairy; squatting, +plump and ungainly on the ground, or spreading huge knotted arms far +overhead, as if reaching out for things they never visibly attain--I +always emerge into the ordinary English atmosphere outside, feeling +altogether unconventional. As I walk across the well-kept lawns, I find +it almost difficult to behave with decorum. It takes me quite a long +time to become really common-place and conventional once more." + +Helen smiled. "Darling," she said, "I think you must have visited the +tropical plants in Kew Gardens more frequently than I realised! I shall +have to forbid Kew, when certain important County functions are +pending." + +"Oh, bother the County!" cried Ronnie. "I never went in for a French +dancing-master to bid me mind my P's and Q's! But, seriously, Helen, +don't you understand how much this means to me? Both my last novels have +had tame English settings. I can't go on forever letting my people make +love in well-kept gardens!" + +"Dear Ronnie, you have a good precedent. The first couple on record made +love in a garden." + +"Nonsense, darling! Eden was a quite fascinating jungle, in which all +the wild animals conversed with intelligence and affability. You don't +suppose Eve would have stood there alone, calmly listening while the +serpent talked theology, unless conversations with animals had been an +every-day occurrence. Think how you'd flee to me, if an old cow in the +park suddenly asked you a question. But do let's keep to the point. I've +got a new plot, and I must have a new setting." + +"Why not be content to do as you have done before, Ronnie; go on +writing, simply and sincerely, of the life you live and know?" + +"Because, my dear girl, in common with the Athenians, people are always +wanting either to tell or to hear some new thing. I've got hold of a +jolly new thing, and I'm going to run it for all it's worth." + +Helen considered this in silence. + +Ronald walked over to the window, and beat a tattoo upon the _In hoc +vince_ pane. + +"Do you see?" he asked. + +"Yes," she answered, slowly. "I see your point, but I also see danger +ahead. I am so anxious that, in your work, you should keep the object +and motive at the highest; not putting success or popularity in their +wrong place. Let success be the result of good work well +done--conscientiously done. Let popularity follow unsought, simply from +the fact that you have been true to yourself, and to your instinctive +inspiration; that you have seen life at its best, and tried to portray +it at its highest. To go rushing off to Central Africa in order to find +a startling setting, is an angling after originality, which will by no +means ensure doing really better work. Oh, Ronnie, my advice is: be +content to stay at home, and to write truly and sincerely of the things +you know." + +Ronald came back to his chair; sat down, his elbows on his knees, his +chin in his hands, and looked earnestly into the troubled eyes of his +wife. + +"But, Helen," he said, "that really is not the point. Can't you see that +I am completely possessed by this new plot? Also, that Central Africa is +its only possible setting? It is merely a satisfactory side-issue, that +it varies my _mise-en-scene_." + +"Must you go off there, Ronnie, in order to write it? Why not get all +the newest and best books on African travel, and read up facts----" + +"Never!" cried Ronald, on his feet again, and walking up and down the +room. "I must be steeped in the wonderful African atmosphere, before I +can sub-consciously work it into my book. No account of other men's +travels could do this for me. Besides, one might get all the main things +correct, yet make a slip in some little unimportant detail. Then, +by-and-by, some Johnny would come along, who could no more have written +a page of your book than he could fly, but who happens to be intimately +acquainted with the locality. He ignores the plot, the character-study, +all the careful work on the essentials; but he spots your trivial error +concerning some completely unimportant detail. So off he writes to the +papers, triumphantly airing his little tit-bit of superior information; +other mediocre people take it up--and you never hear the end of it." + +Helen laughed, tender amusement in her eyes. + +"Ronnie dear, I admit that not many Johnnies could write your books. +But most Johnnies can fly, now-a-days! You must be more up-to-date in +your similes, old boy; or you will have your wife writing to the papers, +remarking that you are behind the times! But, seriously, Ronnie, you +should be grateful to anybody who takes the trouble to point out an +error, however small, in one of your books. You are keen that your work +should be perfect; and if a mistake is mentioned, it can be set right. +Why, surely you remember, when you read me the scene in the manuscript +you wrote just after our marriage, in which a good lady could not sit +down upon a small chair, owing to her _toupet_, I--your admiring and +awestruck wife--ventured to point out that a _toupet_ was not a +crinoline; and you were quite grateful, Ronnie. You did not consider me +an unappreciative Johnny, nor even a mediocre person! Who has, unknown +to me, been trampling on your susceptibilities?" + +"Nobody, thank goodness! I have never written a scene yet, of which I +had not carefully verified every detail of the setting. But it has +happened lots of times to people I know. Unimportant slips never seem to +me to matter in another fellow's work, but they would matter +desperately, horribly, appallingly in one's own. Therefore, nothing will +ever induce me to place the plot of a novel of mine, in surroundings +with which I am not completely familiar. Helen--I must go to Central +Africa." + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE SOB OF THE WOMAN + + +Helen took off her riding-hat, and passed her fingers through the +abundant waves of her hair. + +"How long would it take you, Ronnie?" "Well--including the journey out, +and the journey back, I ought to have a clear seven months. If we could +get off in a fortnight, we might be back early in November; anyway, in +plenty of time for Christmas." + +"Why do you say 'we,' darling?" + +"Why not say 'we'? We always do, don't we?" + +"Yes, dear. For three happy years it has always been 'we,' in +everything. We have not been parted for longer than twelve hours at a +time, Ronnie. But I fear Central Africa cannot be 'we.' I do not feel +that I could go out there with you." + +"Helen! Why not? I thought you would be keen on it. I thought you were +game to go anywhere!" Amazement and dismay were in his eyes. + +She rose slowly, went over to the mantel-piece, moved some little +porcelain figures, then put them back again. + +When at length she spoke, she steadied her voice with an effort. + +"Ronnie dear, Central Africa is not a place for a woman." + +"But, my dearest girl, a woman arrives there in my story! She crawls +into the long grass with the man she loves, and disappears. Our +missionary's bride did it. Where a woman could not go, _I_ must not go +for my local colour. Oh, I say, Helen! You won't fail me?" + +He walked over to the window, and drummed again, with restless, nervous +fingers, upon the _In hoc vince_ pane. + +She came behind him, laying her hand on his shoulder. + +"Darling, it will break my heart if you think I am failing you. But, +while you have been talking, I have faced the matter out, and--I must +tell you at once--I cannot feel it either right or possible to go. I +could not be away just now, for seven months. This place must be looked +after. Think of the little church we are building in the village; the +farms changing tenants this summer; the hundred and one things I, and I +only, must settle and arrange. You never see the bailiff; you hardly +know the tenants; you do not oversee the workpeople. So you can scarcely +judge, dear Ronnie, how important is my presence here; how almost +impossible it would be for me suddenly to go completely out of reach. My +darling--if you keep to it, if you really intend to go, we must face the +fact that it will mean, for us, a long parting." + +The tension of suspense held the stillness of the room. + +Then: "It is my profession," said Ronald West, huskily. "It is my +career." + +She moved round and faced him. They stood looking at one another, +dumbly. + +She knew all that was in his mind, and most that was in his heart. + +He knew nothing of that which filled her mind at the moment, and only +partly realised the great, unselfish love for him which filled her +heart. + +He was completely understood. He rested in that fact, without in the +least comprehending his own lack of comprehension. + +Moving close to him, she laid both hands upon his shoulders, hiding her +face in silence against his breast. + +He stroked her soft hair--helplessly, tenderly. + +With his whole heart he loved her, leaned upon her, needed her. She had +done everything for him; been everything to him. + +But he meant to carry his point. He intended to go to Central Africa, +and it was no sort of good pretending he did not. You never pretended +with Helen, because she saw through you immediately, and usually told +you so. + +He had not spent a single night away from her since that wonderful day +when, calm and radiant, she had moved up the church in presence of an +admiring crowd, and taken her place at his side. + +He was practically unknown then, as a writer. No one but Helen believed +in him, or understood what he had it in him to accomplish. Whereas Helen +herself was the last representative of an ancient County family, owner +of Hollymead Grange, and of a considerable income; courted, admired, +sought after. Yet she gave herself to him, in humble tenderness. Helen +had a royal way of giving. The very way she throned you in her heart, +dropped you on one knee before her footstool. + +He had fully justified her belief in him; but he well knew how much of +his success he owed to her. Their love had taught him lessons, given him +ideals which had not been his before. + +But there was nothing selfish or sentimental about Helen. When the most +sacred of their experiences crept into his work, and stood revealed for +all the world to read; when his art transferred to hard type, and to the +black and white of print and paper, the magic thrill of Helen's +tenderness, so that all her friends could buy it for four shillings and +sixpence, and discuss it at leisure, Helen never winced. She only smiled +and said: "The world has a right to every beautiful thing we can give +it. I have always felt indignant with the people who collect musical +instruments which they have no intention of playing; who lock up Strads +and Cremonas in glass cases, thus holding them dumb for ever to the +eager ear of a listening world." + +Only once, when he had put into a story a tender little name by which +Helen sometimes called him, unable to resist giving his hero the bliss +he, on those rare occasions, himself felt--he found a firm pencil line +drawn through the words, when he looked at the proof sheets, after Helen +had returned them to his desk. She never mentioned the matter to him, +nor did he speak of it to her; but his hero had to forego that +particular thrill, and it was a long time before Ronald himself heard +again the words Helen had deleted. + +He heard them now, however--murmured very softly; and he caught her to +him with sudden passion, kissing her hair. + +Yet he meant to go. _In hoc vince_. He must conquer his very need of +her, if it came between him and the best thing he had yet done in his +work. + +He could not face the thought of the parting; but there was no need to +face that as yet. A whole fortnight intervened. It is useless to suffer +a pang until the pang is actually upon you. Besides, every +experience--however hard to bear--is of value. How much more harrowing +and vivid would be his next description of a parting---- + +Then, suddenly, Ronald felt ashamed. His arms dropped from around her. +He knew himself unworthy--in a momentary flash of self-revelation he +knew himself utterly unworthy--of Helen's generous love, and noble +womanhood. + +"My wife," he said, "I won't go. It isn't worth it." + +Her arms strained around him, and he heard her sob; and, alas--it was +the sob of the woman in the long grass, when she clung to the man who +had crawled out first. His plot stood out to him once more as the +supreme thing. + +"At least," he added, "it wouldn't be worth it, if it costs you so much. +It _is_ my strongest plot, but I will give it up if you would rather I +stayed at home." + +Then Helen loosed her detaining arms, and lifting a brave white face, +smiled at him through her tears. + +"No, Ronnie," she said. "I promised, when we married, always to help you +with your work and to make it easy. I am not going to fail you now. If +the new book requires a parting, we will face it bravely. At the present +moment we both need luncheon, and I must get out of my habit. Ring, and +tell them we shall not be ready for a quarter of an hour, there's a dear +boy! And think of something really funny to tell me at lunch. +Afterwards we will discuss plans." + +She had reached the door when Ronald suddenly called after her: "Helen! +Hadn't you something to tell me, too?" + +She turned in the doorway. Her face was gay with smiles. + +"Oh, mine must wait," she said. "Your new plot, and the wonderful +journey it involves, require our undivided attention." + +The sun shone very brightly just then. It touched the halo of Helen's +soft hair, turning it to gold. _In hoc vince_ gleamed upon the pane. + +For a moment she stood in the doorway, giving him a chance to insist +upon hearing that which she had to tell. But Ronald, easily satisfied, +turned and rang the bell. + +"All right, sweet," he said. "How lovely you look in the sunshine! If it +was business, or anything worrying, I would certainly rather not hear it +now. You have bucked me up splendidly, Helen. Seven months seem nothing; +and my whole mind is bounding forward into my story. I really must give +you an outline of the plot." He followed her into the hall. "Helen! Do +come back for a minute." + +But Helen was half way up the stairs. He heard her laugh as she reached +the landing. + +"I am hungry, dear," she called over the banisters, "and so are you, +only you don't know it! Crawl out of your long grass, and make yourself +presentable before the gong sounds; or I shall send bananas for one, to +your study!" + +"All right!" he shouted; gave Helen's message to the butler; then went +through the billiard-room, whistling gaily. + +"Why, she is as keen as I am," he said to himself, as he turned on the +hot and cold water taps. "And she is perfectly right about not coming +with me. Of course it's jolly hard to leave her; but I believe I shall +do better work alone." + +His mind went back to Helen's bright face in the doorway. He realised +her mastery, for his sake, of her own dread of the parting. + +"What a brick she is!" he said. "Always so perfectly plucky. I don't +believe any other fellow in the world has such a wife as Helen!" + + + + +CHAPTER III + +HELEN TAKES THE INITIATIVE + + +Having once made up her mind that it was right and wise to let Ronnie +go, Helen did not falter. She immediately took control of all necessary +arrangements. Nothing was forgotten. Ronnie's outfit was managed with as +little trouble to himself as possible. They dealt together, in a gay +morning at the Stores, with all interesting items, but those he called +"the dull things" apparently selected themselves. Anyway, they all +appeared in his room, when the time came for packing. + +So whole-hearted was his wife's interest in the undertaking, that Ronnie +almost began to look upon it as her plan. + +It was she who arranged routes and booked his passages. + +When Cook's cheque had to be written it was a large one. + +Helen took out her cheque book. + +"No, no, dear," said Ronnie. "I must pay it out of my own earnings. It +is a literary speculation." + +Helen hesitated. She knew Ronnie did not realise how much the new +building and necessary repairs on the estate were costing her this year. + +"What is your balance at the bank, Ronnie?" + +"I haven't the remotest idea." + +"Darling, why don't you make a note of your last balance on your +counterfoil? Then at any moment you can add up all subsequent cheques +and see at a glance how you stand." + +"Yes, I know, you have explained all that to me before, Helen. But, you +see, most of my counterfoils are blank! I forget to fill them in. You +can't write books, and also keep accounts. If you really think it +important, I might give up the former, and turn my whole attention to +the latter." + +"Don't be silly, dear! You are blessed with a wife who keeps a careful +account of every penny of her own. But I know nothing of your earnings +and spendings, excepting when you suddenly remark at breakfast: 'Hullo! +Here's a useful little cheque for a thousand'--in much the same tone of +voice as you exclaim the next minute: 'Hullo! What excellent +hot-buttered toast!' Ronnie, I wish you would manage to invest rather +more." + +"My dear girl, I have invested heaps! You made me. But what is the use +of saving money when there are only ourselves to consider? We may as +well spend it, and have a good time. If there were kiddies to leave it +to, it would be different. I had so long of being impecunious, that I +particularly enjoy feeling bottomless! Besides, each year will bring in +more. This African book ought to be worth all the rest put together." + +Helen was silent; but she sighed as she filled in Cook's cheque and +signed it. Ronald had spoken so lightly of the great disappointment of +their married life. It was always difficult to get Ronnie to take things +seriously. The fact was: he took _himself_ so seriously, that he was +obliged to compensate by taking everything and everybody else rather +lightly. No doubt this arrangement of relative values, made for success. +Ronnie's success had been very rapid, and very brilliant. He accepted it +with the unconscious modesty of the true artist; his work meaning +immeasurably more to him than that which his work brought him, either in +praise or pennies. + +But Helen gloried in the praise, kept a watchful eye, so far as he would +let her, on the pennies; and herself ministered to the idea that all +else must be subservient, where Ronnie's literary career was concerned. + +She was ministering to it now, at a personal cost known only to her own +brave heart. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +FIRELIGHT IN THE STUDIO + + +It was Ronnie's last evening in England. The parting, which had seemed +so far away, must take place on the morrow. It took all Helen's bright +courage to keep up Ronnie's spirits. + +After dinner they sat together in a room they still called the studio, +although Helen had given up her painting, soon after their marriage. + +It was a large old-fashioned room, oak-panelled and spacious. + +A huge mirror, in a massive gilt frame, hung upon the wall opposite door +and fireplace, reaching from the ceiling to the parquet floor. + +Ronald, who used the studio as a smoking-room, had introduced three or +four deep wicker chairs, comfortably cushioned, and a couple of oriental +tables. + +The fireplace lent itself grandly in winter to great log-fires, when +the crimson curtains were drawn in ample folds over the many windows, +shutting out the dank bleakness of the park without, and imparting a +look of cosiness to the empty room. + +A dozen old family portraits--banished from more important places, +because their expressions annoyed Ronnie--were crowded into whatever +space was available, and glowered down, from the bad light to which they +had been relegated, on the very modern young man whose uncomplimentary +remarks had effected their banishment, and who sprawled luxuriously in +the firelight, monarch of all he surveyed, in the domain which for +centuries had been their own. + +The only other thing in the room was a piano, on which Ronnie very +effectively and very inaccurately strummed by ear; and on which Helen, +with careful skill, played his accompaniments, when he was seized with a +sudden desire to sing. + +Ronald's music was always a perplexity to Helen. There was a quality +about it so extraordinarily, so unusually, beautiful; combined with an +entire lack of method or of training, and a quite startling ignorance of +the most rudimentary rules. + +On one occasion, during a sharp attack of influenza, when he had +insisted upon being down and about, with a temperature of 104, he +suddenly rose from the depths of a chair in which he had been lying, +talking wild and feverish nonsense; stumbled over to the piano, dropped +heavily upon the stool, then proceeded to play and sing, in a way, which +brought tears to his wife's eyes, while her heart stood still with +anxiety and wonder. + +Yet, when she mentioned it a few days later, he appeared to have +forgotten all about it, turning the subject with almost petulant +abruptness. + + * * * * * + +But, on this their last evening together, the piano stood unheeded. They +seemed only to want two chairs, and each other. + +She could hardly take her eyes from his face, remembering how many +months must pass before she could see him again. Yet it was Ronnie who +made moan, and Helen who bravely comforted; turning as often as possible +to earnest discussion of his plot and its possibilities. But after a +while even she went under, to the thought of the nearness of the +parting. + +Though it was late in April, the evenings were chilly; a fire glowed in +the grate. + +Presently Ronnie rose, turned off the electric light, and seated himself +on the rug in the firelight, resting his head against his wife's knees. + +Silently she passed her fingers through his hair. + +Something in the quality of her silence turned Ronald's thoughts from +himself to her alone. "Helen," he said, "I hate to be leaving you. Shall +you be very lonely?" + +She could not answer. + +"You are sure your good old Mademoiselle Victorine is coming to be with +you?" + +"Yes, dear. She holds herself in readiness to come as soon as I feel +able to send for her. She and I lived alone together here during +eighteen months, after Papa's death. We were very quietly happy. I do +not see why we should not be happy again." + +"What shall you do all day?" + +"Well, I shall have my duties in the village and on the estate; and, for +our recreation, we shall read French and German, and do plenty of music. +Mademoiselle Victorine delights in playing what she calls '_des a quatre +mains_,' which consist in our both prancing vigorously upon the same +piano; she steadily punishing the bass; while I fly after her, on the +more lively treble. It is good practice; it has its fascinations, and it +will take the place of riding, for me." + +"Shan't you ride, Helen?" + +"No, Ronnie; not without you." + +"Will you and Mademoiselle Victorine drive your four-in-hands in here?" + +"No, not in here, darling. I don't think I shall be able to bear to +touch the piano on which you play to me." + +"I don't play," said Ronnie. "I strum." + +"True, dear. You often strum. But sometimes you play quite wonderfully. +I wish you had been properly taught!" + +"I always hated being taught anything," said Ronald. "I like doing +things, without learning to do them. And I know what you mean, about the +times when I really play. But, excepting when the mood is on me, I don't +care to think of those times. I never feel really myself when it +happens. I seem to be listening to somebody else playing, and trying to +remember something I have hopelessly forgotten. It gives me a strained, +uncanny feeling, Helen." + +"Does it, darling? Then let us talk of something else. Oh, Ronnie, you +must promise me to take care of your health out in that climate! I +believe you are going at the very worst time of year." + +"I have to know it at its worst and at its hottest," he said. "But I +shall be all right. I'm strong as a horse, and sound in wind and limb." + +"I hope you will get good food." + +He laughed. "I expect to have to live on just whatever I can shoot or +grub up. You see, the more completely I leave all civilisation, the more +correctly I shall get my 'copy.' I can't crawl into the long grass, +carrying tins of sardines and bottles of Bass!" + +"You might take meat lozenges," suggested Ronnie's wife. + +"Meat lozenges, darling, are concentrated nastiness. I felt like an +unhealthy bullock the whole of the rest of the day when, to please you, +I sucked one while we were mountain climbing. I propose living on +interesting and unique fruits and roots--all the things which correspond +to locusts and wild honey. But, Helen, I am afraid there will be quite a +long time during which I shall not be able either to send or to receive +letters. We shall have to console ourselves with the trite old saying: +'No news is good news.' Of course, so far as I am concerned, it would be +useless to hear of any cause for anxiety or worry when I could not +possibly get back, or deal with it." + +"You shall not hear of any worries, or have any anxieties, darling. If +difficulties arise, I will deal with them. You must keep a perfectly +free mind, all the time. For my part, I will try not to give way to +panics about you, if you will promise to cable occasionally, and to +write as often as you can." + +"_You_ won't go and get ill, will you, Helen?" + +She smiled, laying her cheek on the top of his head, as she bent over +him. + +"I never get ill, darling. Like you, I am sound in wind and limb. We are +a most healthy couple." + +"We shall both be thirty, Helen, before we meet again. You will attain +to that advanced age a month before I shall. On your birthday I shall +drink your health in some weird concoction of juices; and I shall say to +all the lions and tigers, hippopotamuses, cockatrices and asps, sitting +round my camp fire: 'You will hardly believe it, my heathen hearers, out +in this well-ordered jungle, where the female is kept in her proper +place--but my wife has had the cheek to march up to-day into the next +decade, leaving me behind in the youthful twenties!'--Oh, Helen, I wish +we had a little kiddie playing around! I am tired of being the youngest +of the family." + +She clasped both hands about his throat. He might have heard the beating +of her heart--had he been listening. + +"Ronald, that is a joy which may yet be ours--some day. But my writer of +romances, who is such a stickler for grammatical accuracy, is surely the +_younger_ of a family of _two_!" + +"Oh, grammar be--relegated to the library!" cried Ronnie, laughing. "And +you really presume too much on that one short month, Helen. You often +treat me as if I were an infant." + +The smile in her eyes held the mother look, in its yearning tenderness. + +"Ronnie dear, you _are_ so very much younger than I, in many ways; and +you always will be. Unlike the 'Infant of Days,' if you live to be a +hundred years old, you will still die young; a child in heart, full of +youth's joyous joy in living. You must not mind if your wife +occasionally treats you as though you were a dear big baby, requiring +maternal care and petting. You are such a veritable boy sometimes, and +it soothes the yearning for a little son of yours to cuddle in her arms, +when she plays that her big boy is something of a baby." + +Ronald took her left hand from about his neck, and kissed it tenderly. + +This was his only answer, but his silence meant more to Helen than +speech. Words flowed so readily to express his surface thoughts; but +when words suddenly and unexpectedly failed, a deeper depth had been +reached; and in that silence, his wife found comfort and content. + +Ronnie was not all ripples. There was more beneath than the shifting +shallows. Deep, still pools were there, and rocks on which might +eventually be built a beacon-light for the souls of men. But, as yet, it +took Helen's clear and faithful eyes to discern the pools; to perceive +the possible strong foundations. + +"Do you remember," he said presently, "the Dalmains coming over last +January, with their little Geoff? When I saw that jolly little chap +trotting about, and looking up at his mother with big shining +eyes, full of trustful love and innocent courage, absolutely +unafraid--notwithstanding her rather peremptory manner, and apparently +stern discipline--I felt that it must be the making of two people to +have such a little son as that, depending upon them to show him how to +grow up right. One would simply be obliged to live up to his baby belief +in one; wouldn't one, Helen?" + +"Yes, darling; we--we should." + +"I hope you will see a lot of the Dalmains while I am away. Try to put +in a good long visit there. And she would come over, if you wanted her, +wouldn't she?" + +"Yes; she will come if I want her." + +"You and she are great friends," pursued Ronnie, "aren't you? _I_ find +her alarming. When she looks at me, I feel such a worm. I want to slide +into a hole and hide. But there is never a hole to be found. I have to +remain erect, handing tea and bread-and-butter, while I mentally grovel. +I almost pray that a hungry blackbird or a prying thrush may chance to +come my way, and consider me juicy and appetising. You remember--the +Vicar and _Mrs._ Vicar came to tea that day. She wore brown spots. But +even the priestly blackbird, and the Levitical thrush, passed me by on +the other side." + +"Oh, Ronnie, how silly! I know Jane admires your books, darling!" + +"She considers me quite unfit to tie your shoe-strings." + +"Ronnie, be quiet! You would not be afraid of her, had you ever known +what it was to turn to her in trouble or difficulty. She helped me +through an awfully hard time, six months before I met you. She showed me +the right thing to do, then stood by me while I did it. There is nobody +in the whole world quite like her." + +"Well, send for her if you get into any troubles while I am away. I +shall feel quite brave about her being here, when I am safely hidden in +the long grass!" + +"Is there any possible chance that you will get back sooner than you +think, Ronnie?" + +"Hardly. Not before November, anyway. And yesterday my publishers were +keen that I should put in a night at Leipzig on my way home, and a night +at the Hague; show whatever 'copy' I have to firms there, and make +arrangements for German and Dutch translations to appear as soon as +possible after the English edition is out. I think I may as well do +this, and return by the Hook of Holland. I enjoy the night-crossing, and +like reaching London early in the morning. By the way, haven't you a +cousin of some sort living at Leipzig?" + +"Yes; my first cousin, Aubrey Treherne. He is studying music, and +working on compositions of his own, I believe. He lives in a flat in the +Grassi Strasse." + +"All right. Put his address in my pocket-book. I will look him up. My +special chum, Dick Cameron, is to be out there in November, +investigating one of their queer water-cures. I wish you knew Dick +Cameron, Helen. I shall hope to see him, too. Has your cousin a spare +room in his flat?" + +"I do not know. Ronnie, Aubrey Treherne is not a good man. He is not a +man you should trust." + +"Darling, you don't necessarily trust a fellow because he puts you up +for the night. But I daresay Dick will find me a room." + +"Aubrey is not a good man," repeated Helen firmly. + +"Dear, we are none of us good." + +"_You_ are, Ronnie--in the sense I mean, or I should not have married +you." + +"Oh, then, yes _please_!" said Ronnie. "I am very, very good!" + +He laughed up at her, but Helen's face was grave. Then a sudden thought +brightened it. + +"If you really go to Leipzig, Ronnie, could you look in at +Zimmermann's--a first-rate place for musical instruments of all +kinds--and choose me a small organ for the new church? I saw a little +beauty the other day at Huntingford; a perfect tone, twelve stops, and +quite easy to play. They had had it sent over from Leipzig. It cost only +twenty-four pounds. In England, one could hardly have bought so good an +instrument for less than forty. If you could choose one with a really +sweet tone, and have it shipped over here, I should be grateful." + +"With pleasure, darling. I enjoy trying all sorts of instruments. But +why economise over the organ? If my wife fancied a hundred guinea organ, +I could give it her." + +"No, you couldn't, Ronnie. You must not be extravagant." + +"I am not extravagant, dear. Buying things one can afford is not +extravagance." + +"Sometimes it is. Extravagance is not spending money. But it is paying a +higher price for a thing than the actual need demands, or than the +circumstances justify. I considered you extravagant last winter when you +paid five guineas for a box at Olympia, intended to hold eight people, +and sat in it, in solitary grandeur, alone with your wife." + +"I know you did," said Ronnie. "You left me no possible loop-hole for +doubt in the matter. But your quite mistaken view, on that occasion, +arose from an incorrect estimate of values. I paid one pound, six +shillings and three-pence for the two seats, and three pounds, eighteen +and nine-pence for the pleasure of sitting alone with my wife, and +thought it cheap at that. It was a far lower price than the actual need +demanded; therefore, by your own showing, it was not extravagant." + +"Oh, what a boy it is!" sighed Helen, with a little gesture of despair. +"Then, last Christmas, Ronnie, you insisted upon feting the old people +with all kinds of unnecessary luxuries. They had always been quite +content with wholesome bread-and-butter, plum cake, and nice hot tea. +They did not require _pate de foie gras_ and champagne, nor did they +understand or really enjoy them. One old lady, in considerable distress, +confided to me the fact that the champagne tasted to her 'like physic +with a fizzle in it.' It made most of them ill, Ronnie, and cost at +least eight times as much as my simple Christmas parties of other years. +So don't go and spend an unnecessary sum on an elaborate, and probably +less useful, instrument. I will write you full particulars when the time +comes. Oh, Ronnie, you will be so nearly home, by then! How shall I +wait?" + +"I shall love to feel I have something to do for you in Leipzig," said +Ronnie; "and I enjoy poking about among crowds of queer instruments. I +should like to have played in Nebuchadnezzar's band. I should have +played the sackbut, because I haven't the faintest notion how you work +the thing--whether you blow into it, or pull it in and out, or tread +upon it; nor what manner of surprising sound it emits, when you do any +or all of these things. I love springing surprises on myself and on +other people; and I know I do best the things which, if I considered the +matter beforehand, I shouldn't have the veriest ghost of a notion how to +set about doing. That, darling, is inspiration! I should have played +the sackbut by inspiration; whereupon Nebuchadnezzar would instantly +have had me cast into the burning fiery furnace." + +"Oh, Ronnie, I wish I could laugh! But to-morrow is so near. What shall +I do when there is nobody here to tell me silly stories?" + +"Ask Mademoiselle Victorine to try her hand at it. Say: 'Chere +Mademoiselle, s'il-vous-plait, racontez-moi une extremement sotte +histoire.'" + +"Ronnie, do stop chaffing! Go and play me something really beautiful, +and sing very softly, as you did the other night; so that I can hear the +tones of the piano and your voice vibrating together." + +"No," said Ronnie, "I can't. I have a cast-iron lump in my throat just +now, and not a note could pass it. Besides, I don't really play the +piano." + +He stretched out his foot, and kicked a log into the fire. + +The flame shot up, illumining the room. The log-fire, and the two +seated near it, were reflected fitfully in the distant mirror. + +"Helen, there is one instrument, above all others, which I have always +longed to play; yet I have never even held one in my hand." + +"What instrument is that, darling?" + +"The violoncello," said Ronnie, sitting up and turning towards her as he +spoke. "When I think of a 'cello I seem as if I know exactly how it +would feel to hold it between my knees, press my fingers up and down the +yielding strings, and draw the bow across them. Helen--if I had a 'cello +here to-night, you would listen to sounds of such exquisite throbbing +beauty, that you would forget everything in this world, my wife, +excepting that I love you." + +His eyes shone in the firelight. An older look of deeper strength and of +fuller manly vigour came into his face. The glow of love transfigured +it. + +With an uncontrollable sob, Helen stooped and laid her lips on his. + +The clock struck midnight. + +"Oh, Ronnie," she said; "oh, Ronnie! It is _to-day_, now! No longer +to-morrow--but to-day!" + +He sprang to his feet, took her hand, and drew her to the door. + +"Come, Helen," he said. + + + + +Part II + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE INFANT OF PRAGUE + + +Two men, in a flat at Leipzig, sat on either side of a tall porcelain +stove. + +The small door in the stove stood open, letting a ruddy glow shine from +within, a poor substitute for the open fires blazing merrily in England +on this chill November evening; yet giving visible evidence of the heat +contained within those cool-looking blue and white embossed tiles. + +The room itself was a curious mixture of the taste of the Leipzig +landlady, who owned and had furnished it, and of the Englishman studying +music, who was its temporary tenant. + +The high-backed sofa, upholstered in red velvet, stood stiffly against +the wall, awaiting the "guest of honour," who never arrived. It served, +however, as a resting-place for a violin, and a pile of music; while, on +the opposite side of the room, partly eclipsing a fancy picture of +Goethe, stood a chamber organ, open, and displaying a long row of varied +stops. + +Books and music were piled upon every available flat space, saving the +table; upon which lay the remains of supper. + +Of the three easy chairs placed in a semi-circle near the stove, two +were occupied; but against the empty chair in the centre, its dark brown +polished surface reflecting the glow of the fire, leaned a beautiful old +violoncello. The metal point of its foot made a slight dent in the +parquet floor. + +The younger of the two men sat well forward, elbows on knees, eyes +alight with excitement, intently gazing at the 'cello. + +The other lay back in his chair, his thin sensitive fingers carefully +placed tip to tip, his deep-set eyes scrutinising his companion. When he +spoke his voice was calm and deliberate, his manner exceedingly quiet. +His method of conversation was of the kind which drew out the full +confidence of others, while at the same time carefully insinuating, +rather than frankly expressing, ideas of his own. + +"What a rum fellow you must be, West, to pay a hundred and fifty pounds +for an instrument you have no notion of playing. Is it destined to be +kept under lock and key in a glass case?" + +"Certainly not," said Ronald West. "I shall be able to play it when I +try; and I shall try as soon as I get home." + +"Give us a sample here." + +"No, not here. I particularly wish to play it first with Helen, in the +room where I told her a 'cello was the instrument I had always wanted. +Oh, I say, isn't it a beauty! Look at those curves, and that wonderful +polish, like the richest brown of the very darkest horse-chestnut you +ever saw in a bursting bur! See how the silver strings shine in the +firelight, against the black ebony of the finger-board! It was made at +Prague, and it is a hundred and fifty years old. I call it the Infant of +Prague." + +"Why the 'Infant'?" + +"Because you have to be so careful not to bump its head as you carry it +about. Also, isn't there a verse somewhere, about an Infant of Days who +was a hundred years old, and young at that? Helen will love the Infant. +She will polish it with a silk handkerchief, and make a bed for it on +the sofa! I shan't write to her about it. I shall bring it home as a +surprise." + +He took his eyes from the 'cello and looked across at Helen's cousin; +but Aubrey Treherne instantly shifted his gaze to the unconscious +Infant. + +"Tell me how you came across it. There is no doubt you have been +fortunate enough to pick up an instrument of extraordinary value and +beauty." + +"Ah, you realise that?" cried Ronald. "Good! Well, you shall hear +exactly what happened. I arrived here early this morning, put up at a +hotel, and sallied out to interview the publishers. I had a mass of +'copy' to show them, because I have been writing incessantly the whole +way home. Curiously enough, since I left Africa, I have scarcely needed +any sleep. Snatches of half an hour seem all I require. It is convenient +when one has a vast amount of work to get through in a short space of +time." + +"Very convenient. Just the reverse of the sleeping sickness." + +"Rather! I was never fitter in my life--as I told Dick Cameron." + +Aubrey Treherne glanced at the bright burning eyes and flushed face--the +feverish blood showing, even through the tan of Africa. + +"Yes, you look jolly fit," he said. "Who is Dick Cameron?" + +"A great chum of mine. We met, as boys in Edinburgh, and were at school +together. He is the son of Colonel Cameron of Transvaal fame, killed +while leading a charge. Dick has done awfully well in the medical, +passed all necessary exams, and taken every possible degree. He is now +looking out for a practice, and meanwhile a big man in London has sent +him out to investigate one of these queer water friction +cures--professes to cure cataract and cancer and every known disease, by +simply sitting you in a tub, and rubbing you down with a dish-cloth. +Dick Cameron says--Hullo! Why are we talking of Dick Cameron? I thought +I was telling you about the 'cello." + +"You are telling me about the 'cello," said Aubrey, quietly. "But in +order to arrive at the 'cello we had to hear about your visit to the +publishers with your mass of manuscript, which resulted from having +acquired in Central Africa the useful habit of not needing more than +half an hour of sleep in the twenty-four; which, possibly, Dick Cameron +did not consider sufficient. Doctors are apt to be faddy in such +matters. Whereupon you, naturally, told him you were perfectly fit." + +"Ah, yes, I remember," said Ronnie. "Am I spinning rather a yarn?" + +"Not at all, my dear fellow. Do not hurry. We have the whole evening +before us--night, if necessary. You can put in your half-hour at any +time, I suppose; and I can dispense with sleep for once. It is not often +one has the chance of spending a night in the company of a noted +author, an African traveller straight from the jungle, and the man who +has married one's favourite cousin. I am all delighted attention. What +did your friend Dick Cameron say?" + +"Well, I met him as I was hurrying back to the hotel, carrying the +Infant, who did not appear to advantage in the exceedingly plain brown +canvas bag which was all they could give me at Zimmermann's. When I get +home I shall consult Helen, and we shall order the best case +procurable." + +"Naturally. Probably Helen will advise a bassinet by night, and a +perambulator by day." + +Ronnie looked perplexed. "Why a bassinet?" he said. + +"The _Infant_, you know." + +"Oh--ah, yes, I see. Well, of course I wanted to introduce the Infant +properly to Dick Cameron, but he objected when I began taking it out of +its bag in the street. He suggested that it might take cold--it +certainly is a dank day. Also that there are so many by-laws and +regulations in Leipzig connected with things you may not do in the +streets, that probably if you took a 'cello out of its case and stood +admiring it in the midst of the crowded thoroughfare, you would get run +in by a policeman. Dick said: 'Arrest of the Infant of Prague in the +Streets of Leipzig' would make just the kind of sensational headline +beloved by newspapers. I realised that he was right. It would have +distressed Helen, besides being a most unfortunate way for her to hear +first of the Infant. Helen is a great stickler for respectability." + +Aubrey Treherne's pale countenance turned a shade paler. His thin lips +curved into the semblance of a smile. + +"Ah, yes," he said, "of course. Helen is a great stickler for +respectability. Well? So you gave up undressing your Infant in the +street?" + +Again Ronnie's eager face took on a look of perplexity. + +"I did not propose undressing it," he said. + +"I only wanted to take it out of its bag." + +"I see. Quite a simple matter. Well? Owing to our absurd police +regulations you were prevented from doing this. What happened next?" + +"Dick suggested that we should go to his rooms. Arrived there he ceased +to take any interest in my 'cello, clapped me into a chair, and stuck a +beastly thermometer into my mouth." + +"Doctors are such enthusiasts," murmured Aubrey Treherne. "They can +never let their own particular trade alone. I suppose he also felt your +pulse and looked at your tongue." + +"Rather! Then he said I had no business to be walking about with a +temperature of 103. I was so much annoyed that I promptly smashed the +thermometer, and we had a fine chase after the quicksilver. You never +saw anything like it! It ran like a rabbit, in and out of the nooks and +corners of the chair, until at last it disappeared through a crack in +the floor; went to ground, you know. Doesn't Helen look well on +horseback?" + +"Charming. I suppose you easily convinced your friend that his diagnosis +was rubbish?" + +"Of course I did. I told him I had never felt better in my life. But I +drank the stuff he gave me, simply to save further bother; also another +dose which he brought to the hotel. Then he insisted on leaving a bottle +out of which I am to take a dose every three hours on the journey home. +I did not know old Dick was such a crank." + +"Probably it is the result of sitting in a tub and being scrubbed with a +dish-cloth. Did he know you were coming here?" + +"Yes; he picked up my pocket-book, found your address, and made a note +of it. He said he should probably look us up at about ten o'clock this +evening. I told him I might be here pretty late. I did not know you were +going to be so kind as to fetch my things from the hotel and put me up. +You really are most--" + +"Delighted, my dear fellow. Honoured!" said Aubrey Treherne. "Now tell +me about the finding of the 'cello." + +"I interviewed the publishers, and I hope it is all right. But they +seemed rather hurried and vague, and anxious to get me off the premises. +No doubt I shall fare better in courteous little Holland. Then I went on +to Zimmermann's to choose Helen's organ. I found exactly what she +wanted, and at the price she wished. On my way downstairs I found myself +in a large room full of violoncellos--dozens of them. They were hanging +in glass cases; they were ranged along the top. Then I suddenly felt +impelled to look to the top of the highest cabinet, and there I saw the +Infant! I knew instantly that that was the 'cello I _must_ have. It +seemed mine already. It seemed as if it always had been mine. I asked to +be shown some violoncellos. They produced two or three, in which I took +no interest. Then I said: 'Get down that dark brown one, third from the +end.' They lifted it down, and, from the moment I touched it, I knew it +must be mine! They told me it was made at Prague, a hundred and fifty +years ago, and its price was three thousand marks. Luckily, I had my +cheque-book in my pocket, also my card, Helen's card, my publisher's +letter of introduction to the firm here, and my own letter of credit +from my bankers. So they expressed themselves willing to take my cheque. +I wrote it then and there, and marched out with the Infant. I first +called it the Infant on the stairs, as we were leaving Zimmermann's, +because I almost bumped its head! Isn't it a beauty?" + +"Undoubtedly it is." + +"They put on a new set of the very best strings," continued Ronnie; +"supplied me with a good bow, and threw in a cake of rosin." + +"What did you pay for the organ?" inquired Aubrey Treherne. + +"Twenty-four pounds. Helen would not have a more expensive one. She is +always telling me not to be extravagant." + +"That, my dear boy, invariably happens to an impecunious fellow who +marries a rich wife." + +Ronnie flushed. "I am impecunious no longer," he said. "During the past +twelve months I have made, by my books, a larger income than my wife's." + +"I can well believe it," said Aubrey, cordially. "But I suppose she can +never forget the fact that, when you married her, she paid your debts." + +Ronald West sprang to his feet. + +"Confound you!" he said, violently. "What do you mean? Helen never paid +my debts! She found them out, I admit; but I paid them every one myself, +with the first cheque I received from my publishers. I demand an +explanation of your statement." + +The other two members of the trio round the stove appeared completely +unmoved by the fury of the young man who had leapt to his feet. The +Infant of Prague leaned calmly against its chair, reflecting the fire in +its polished surface, and pressing its one sharp foot into the parquet. +Aubrey smiled, deprecatingly, and waved Ronnie back to his seat. + +"My dear fellow, I am sure I beg your pardon. My cousin certainly gave +her family to understand that she had paid your debts. No doubt this was +not the case. We all know that women are somewhat given to exaggeration +and inaccuracy. Think no more of it." + +Ronnie sat down moodily in his chair. + +"It was unlike Helen," he said, "and it was a lie. I shall find out with +whom it originated. But you are a good fellow to take my word about it +at once. I am obliged to you, Treherne." + +"Don't mention it, West. Men rarely lie to one another. On the other +hand women rarely speak the truth. What will my good cousin say to one +hundred and fifty pounds being paid for a 'cello?" + +"It will be no business of hers," said Ronnie, angrily. "I can do as I +choose with my own earnings." + +"I doubt it," smiled Aubrey Treherne. + +"The man who married my cousin Helen, was bound to surrender his +independence and creep under her thumb. I am grateful to you for having +saved me from that fate. As no doubt she has told you, she refused me +shortly before she accepted you." + +Ronald's start of surprise proved at once to Aubrey his complete +ignorance of the whole matter. + +"I had no idea you were ever in love with my wife," he said. + +"Nor was I, my dear fellow," sneered Aubrey Treherne. "Others, besides +yourself, were after your wife's money." + +A sense of impotence seized Ronald, in nightmare grip. Indignant and +furious, he yet felt absolutely unable to contradict or to explain. + +Suddenly he seemed to hear Helen's voice saying earnestly: "My cousin +Aubrey is not a good man, Ronnie; he is not a man you should trust." + +This vivid remembrance of Helen, brought him to his senses. + +"I prefer not to discuss my wife," he said, with quiet dignity; "nor my +relations with her. Let us talk of something else." + +"By all means, my dear fellow," replied Aubrey. "You must pardon the +indiscretion of cousinly interest. Tell me of your new book. Have you +settled upon a title?" + +But the instinct of authorship now shielded Ronnie. + +"I never talk of my books, excepting to Helen, until they are finished," +he said. + +"Quite right," agreed Aubrey, cordially. "But you might tell me why this +one took you to Central Africa. Is it a book of travels?" + +"No; it is a love-story. But the scene is laid in wild places--ah, such +places! One cannot possibly understand, until one gets there and does +it, what it is like to leave civilisation behind, and crawl into long +grass thirteen feet high!" + +"It sounds weirdly fascinating," remarked Aubrey. "So unusual a setting, +must mean a remarkable plot." + +"It is the strongest thing I have done yet," said Ronnie, with +enthusiasm. + +Aubrey smiled, surveying Ronnie's eager face with slow enjoyment. He was +mentally recalling phrases from reviews he had written for various +literary columns, on Ronnie's work. Already he began wording the terse +sentences in which he would point out the feebleness and lack of +literary merit, in "the strongest thing" Ronnie had done yet. It might +be well to know something more about it. + +"It will be very unlike your other books," he suggested. + +"Yes," explained Ronnie, expanding. "You see they were all absolutely +English; just of our own set, and our own surroundings. I wanted +something new. I couldn't go on letting my hero make love in an English +garden." + +"If you wanted a variety," suggested Aubrey Treherne, "you might have +let him make love in another man's garden. Stolen fruits are sweet! +There is always a fascination about trespassing." + +"No, thank you," said Ronnie. "That would be Paradise Lost." + +"Or Paradise Regained," murmured Aubrey. + +"I think not. Besides--Helen reads my books." + +"Oh, I see," sneered Aubrey. "So your wife draws the line?" + +"I don't know what you mean," replied Ronnie. "Falsehood, frailty, and +infidelity, do not appeal to me as subjects for romance. But, if they +did, I certainly should not feel free to put a line into one of my books +which I should be ashamed to see my own wife reading." + +"Oh, safe and excellent standard!" mocked Aubrey Treherne. "No wonder +you go down with the British public." + +"I think, if you don't mind," said Ronald, with some heat, "we will +cease to discuss my books and my public." + +"Then there is but one subject left to us," smiled Aubrey--"the Infant +of Prague! Let us concentrate our attention upon this entirely +congenial topic. I wonder how long this dear child has remained dumb. I +have seen many fine instruments in my time, West, but I am inclined to +think your 'cello is the finest I have yet come across. Do you mind if I +tune it, and try the strings?" + +Ronnie's pleasure and enthusiasm were easily rekindled. + +"Do," he said. "I am grateful. I do not even know the required notes." + +Aubrey, leaning forward, carefully lifted the instrument, resting it +against his knees. He took a tuning-fork from his pocket. + +"It is tuned in fifths," he said. "The open strings are A, D, G, C. You +can remember them, because they stand for 'Allowable Delights Grow +Commonplace'; or, read the other way up: 'Courage Gains Desired Aims.'" + +With practised skill he rapidly tightened the four strings into harmony; +then, after carefully rosining the bow, rasped it with uncertain touch +across them. The Infant squealed, as if in dire pain. Ronnie winced, +obviously restraining himself with an effort from snatching his +precious 'cello out of Aubrey's hands. + +It did not strike him as peculiar that a man who played the violin with +ease, should not be able to draw a clear tone from the open strings of a +'cello. + +"I don't seem to make much of it," said Aubrey. "The 'cello is a +difficult instrument to play, and requires long practice." And again he +rasped the bow across the strings. + +The Infant's wail of anguish gained in volume. + +Ronnie sprang up, holding out eager hands. "Let _me_ try," he said. "It +must be able to make a better sound than that!" + +As he placed the 'cello between his knees, a look of rapt content came +into his face. He slipped his left hand up and down the neck, letting +his fingers glide gently along the strings. + +Aubrey watched him narrowly. + +Ronnie lifted the bow; then he paused. A sudden remembrance seemed to +arrest the action in mid-air. + +He laid his left hand firmly on the shoulder of the Infant, out of reach +of the tempting strings. + +"I am not going to play," he said. "The very first time I really play, +must be in the studio, and Helen must be there. But I will just sound +the open strings." + +He looked down upon the 'cello and waited, the light of expectation +brightening in his face. + +Aubrey Treherne noted the remarkable correctness of the position he had +unconsciously assumed. + +Then Ronnie, raising the bow, drew it, with unfaltering touch, across +the silver depths of lower C. + +A rich, full note, rising, falling, vibrating, filled the room. The +Infant of Prague was singing. A master-hand had waked its voice once +more. + +Ronnie's head swam. A hot mist was before his eyes. His breath came in +short sobs. He had completely forgotten the sardonic face of his wife's +cousin, in the chair opposite. + +Then the hot mist cleared. He raised the bow once more, and drew it +across G. + +G merged into D without a pause. Then, with a strong triumphant sweep, +he sounded A. + +The four open strings of the 'cello had given forth their full sweetness +and power. + +"Helen, oh, Helen!" said Ronnie. + +Then he looked up, and saw Aubrey Treherne. + +He laughed, rather unsteadily. "I thought I was at home," he said. "For +the moment it seemed as if I must be at home. I was experiencing the +purest joy I have known since I left Helen. What do you think of my +'cello, man? Isn't it wonderful?" + +"It is very wonderful," said Aubrey Treherne. "Your Infant is all you +hoped. The tone is perfect. But what is still more wonderful is that +you--who believe yourself never to have handled a 'cello before--can set +the strings vibrating with such unerring skill; such complete mastery. +Of course, to me, the mystery is no mystery. The reason of it all is +perfectly clear." + +"What is the reason of it all?" inquired Ronnie, eagerly. + +"In a former existence, dear boy," said Aubrey Treherne, slowly, "you +were a great master of the 'cello. Probably the Infant of Prague was +your favourite instrument. It called to you from its high place in the +'cello room at Zimmermann's, as it has been calling to you for years; +only, at last, it made you hear. It was your own, and you knew it. You +would have bought it, had its price been a thousand pounds. You could +not have left the place without the Infant in your possession." + +Ronald's feverish flush deepened. His eyes grew more burningly bright. + +"What an extraordinary idea!" he said. "I don't think Helen would like +it, and I am perfectly certain Helen would not believe it." + +"You cannot refuse to believe a truth because it does not happen to +appeal to your wife," said Aubrey. "Grasp it clearly yourself; then +educate her up to a proper understanding of the matter. All of us who +are worth anything in this world have lived before--not once, nor twice, +but many times. We bring the varied experiences of all previous +existences, unconsciously to bear upon and to enrich this one. Have you +not often heard the expression 'A born musician'? What do we mean by +that? Why, a man born with a knowledge, a sense, an experience, of +music, who does not require to go through the mill of learning all the +rudiments before music can express itself through him, because the soul +of music is in him. He plays by instinct--some folk call it inspiration. +Technical, skill he may have to acquire--his fingers are new to it. The +understanding of notation he may have to master again--the brain he uses +_consciously_ is also of fresh construction. But the sub-conscious self, +the _Ego_ of the man, the real eternal soul of him, leaps back with joy +to the thing he has done perfectly before. He is a born musician; just +as John the Baptist was a born prophet, because, into the little body +prepared by Zacharias and Elisabeth, came the great _Ego_ of Elijah +reincarnate; to reappear as a full-grown prophet on the banks of the +Jordan--the very spot from which he had been caught away, his life-work +only half-accomplished, nine centuries before. Even our good Helen, if +she knows her Bible, could hardly question this, remembering Whom it was +Who said: 'If ye will receive it, this _is_ Elijah which was for to +come; and they knew him not, but have done unto him whatsoever they +listed.'" + +"Great Scott!" exclaimed Ronnie. "What a theory! But indeed Helen would +question it; and not only so, but she would be exceedingly upset and +very much annoyed." + +"Then Helen would fully justify the 'If' of the greatest of all +teachers. She would come under the heading of those who refuse to +receive a truth, however clearly and unmistakably expressed." + +"Lor!" exclaimed Ronnie, in undisguised perplexity. "You have +completely cornered me. But then I never set up for being a theologian." + +"No; you are a born artist and musician. Music, tone, sound, colour, +vibrate in every page of your romances. Had your parents taught you +harmony, the piano, and the fiddle, your music would have burst forth +along its normal lines. As they merely taught you the alphabet and +grammar, your creative faculty turned to literature; you wrote romances +full of music, instead of composing music full of romance. It is a +distinction without a difference. But, now that you have found your +mislaid 'cello, and I am teaching you to KNOW YOURSELF, you will do +both." + +Ronald stared across at Aubrey. His head was throbbing. Every moment he +seemed to become more certain that he had indeed, many times before, +held the Infant of Prague between his knees. + +But there was a weird, uncanny feeling in the room. Helen seemed to walk +in, to seat herself in the empty chair; and, leaning forward, to look +at him steadily, with her clear earnest eyes. She seemed to repeat +impressively: "Aubrey is not a good man, Ronnie. He is not a man you +should trust." + +"Well?" asked Aubrey, at last. "Do you recognise the truth?" + +Then, with an effort, Ronnie answered as he believed Helen would have +answered; and her face beside him seemed to smile approval. + +"It sounds a plausible theory," he said slowly; "it may possibly be a +truth. But it is not a truth required by us now. Our obvious duty in the +present is to live this life out to its fullest and best, regarding it +as a time of preparation for the next." + +Aubrey's thin lips framed the word "Rubbish!" but, checking it +unuttered, substituted: "Quite right. This existence _is_ a preparation +for the next; just as that which preceded was a preparation for this." + +Then Ronnie ceased to express Helen, and gave vent to an idea of his +own. + +"It would make a jolly old muddle of all our relationships," he said. + +"Not at all," replied Aubrey. "It merely readjusts them, compensating +for disappointments in the present, by granting us the assurance of past +possessions, and the expectation of future enjoyment. In the life which +preceded this, Helen was probably _my_ wife, while _you_ were a +beautiful old person in diamond shoe-buckles, knee-breeches, and old +lace, who played the 'cello at our wedding." + +"Confound you!" cried Ronnie, in sudden fury, springing up and swinging +the 'cello above his head, as if about to bring it down, with a crashing +blow, upon Aubrey. "Damned old shoe-buckle yourself! Helen was never +your wife! More likely you blacked her boots and mine!" + +"Oh, hush!" smiled Aubrey, in contemptuous amusement. "Excellent young +men who make innocent love in rose-gardens, never say 'damn.' And in +those days, dear boy, we did not use shoe-blacking. Pray calm yourself, +and sit down. You are upsetting the internal arrangements of your +Infant. If you swing a baby violently about, it makes it sick. Any old +Gamp will tell you that." + +Ronnie sat down; but solely because his knees suddenly gave way beneath +him. The floor on which he was standing seemed to become deep sand. + +"Keep calm," sneered Aubrey Treherne. "Perhaps you would like to know my +excellent warrant for concluding that Helen was my wife in a former +life? She came very near to being my wife in this. She was engaged to me +before she ever met you, my boy. Had it not been for the interference of +that strong-minded shrew, Mrs. Dalmain, she would have married me. I had +kissed my cousin Helen, as much as I pleased, before you had ever +touched her hand." + +The incandescent lights grew blood-red, leaping up and down, in wild, +bewildering frolic. + +Then they steadied suddenly. Helen's calm, lovely figure, in a shaft of +sunlight, reappeared in the empty chair. + +Ronnie handed the Infant to her; rose, staggered across the intervening +space, and struck Aubrey Treherne a violent blow on the mouth. + +Aubrey gripped his arms, and for a moment the two men glared at one +another. + +Then Ronnie's knees gave way again; his feet sank deeply into the sand; +and Aubrey, forcing him violently backward, pinned him down in his +chair. + +"I would kill you for this," he whispered, his face very close to +Ronnie's; blood streaming from his lip. "I would kill you for this, you +clown! But I mean to kiss Helen again; and life, while it holds that +prospect, is too sweet to risk losing for the mere pleasure of wiping +you out. Otherwise, I would kill you now, with my two hands." + +Then a black pulsating curtain rolled, in impenetrable folds, +between Ronnie and that livid bleeding face, and he sank +away--down--down--down--into silent depths of darkness and of solitude. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +AUBREY PUTS DOWN HIS FOOT + + +Ronnie's first sensation as he returned to consciousness, was of extreme +lassitude and exhaustion. + +His eyelids lifted heavily; he had some difficulty in realising where he +was. + +Then he saw his 'cello, leaning against a chair; and, a moment later, +Aubrey Treherne, lying back in the seat opposite, enveloped in a cloud +of tobacco smoke. + +"Hullo, West!" said Aubrey, kindly. "You put in your half-hour quite +unexpectedly. You were trying, in a sleepy fashion, to tell me how you +came to purchase this fine 'cello; but you dropped off, with the tale +unfinished." + +Ronnie looked in silence at his wife's cousin. + +"Are you the better for your sleep?" + +"I am fagged out," said Ronnie, wearily. + +Aubrey went to a cupboard, poured something into a glass, and handed it +to Ronald. + +"Drink this, my boy. It will soon wake you up." + +Ronnie drank it. Its tint was golden, its odour, fragrant; but +otherwise, for aught he knew, it might have been pure water. + +He sat up and took careful note of his surroundings. + +Then an idea seemed to strike him. He leaned forward and twanged the +strings of his 'cello. They were not in tune. + +"Will you lend me your tuning-fork?" he said to Aubrey. + +But Aubrey had expected this. + +"Sorry," he said. "I don't possess one, just now. I gave away mine last +week. You can tune your 'cello by the organ." + +"I don't know how to tune a 'cello," said Ronnie. + +"Let me show you," suggested Aubrey, with the utmost friendliness. + +He walked over to the organ, drew out the 'cello stop, sounded a note, +then came back humming it. + +Then he took up the Infant and carefully tuned the four strings, talking +easily meanwhile. + +"You see? You screw up the pegs--so. The notes are A, D, G, C." + +"What have you done to your lip?" said Ronald, suddenly. + +"Knocked it on the stove just now, as I bent to stoke it with my +fingers, for fear of waking you. It bled amazingly." + +Aubrey produced a much-stained handkerchief. + +"It is curious how a tiny knock will sometimes draw as much blood as a +sword-thrust. There! The Infant is in perfect tune, so far as I can tell +without the bow. Do you mind if I just pass the bow across the strings? +After each string is perfectly tuned to a piano or organ, you must make +them vibrate together in order to get the fifths perfect. A violin or a +'cello is capable of a more complete condition of intuneness--if I may +coin a word--than an organ or a piano." + +He took up the bow, then with careful precision sounded the strings, +singly and together. The beautiful open notes of the Infant of Prague, +filled the room. + +"There," said Aubrey, putting it back against the empty chair. "I am +afraid that is all I must attempt. I only play the fiddle. I might +disappoint you in your Infant if I did more than sound the open +strings." + +Ronald passed his hand over his forehead. "When did I fall asleep?" he +asked. + +"Just after suggesting that we should not discuss your books or your +public." + +"Ah, I remember! Treherne, I have had the most vivid and horrid +nightmares." + +"Then forget them," put in Aubrey, quickly. "Never recount a nightmare, +when it is over. You suffer all its horrors again, in the telling. Turn +your thoughts to something pleasant. When do you reach England?" + +"I cross by the Hook, the day after to-morrow, reaching London early the +following morning. I shall go to my club, see my publisher, lunch in +town, and get down home to tea." + +"To the moated Grange?" inquired Aubrey. + +"Yes, to the Grange. Helen will await me there. But why do you call it +'moated'? We do not boast a moat." + +Aubrey laughed. "I suppose my thoughts had run to 'Mariana.' You +remember? 'He cometh not,' she said; the young woman who grew tired of +waiting. They do, sometimes, you know! I believe _her_ grange was +moated. All granges should be moated; just as all old manors should be +haunted. What a jolly time you and Helen must have in that lovely old +place. I knew it well as a boy." + +"You must come and stay with us," said Ronnie, with an effort. + +"Thanks, dear chap. Delighted. Has Helen kept well during your absence?" + +"Quite well. She wrote as often as she could, but there was a beastly +long time when I could get no letters. Hullo!--I say!" + +Ronnie stood up suddenly, the light of remembrance on his thin face, and +began plunging his hands into the many pockets of his Norfolk coat. + +"I found a letter from Helen at the _Poste Restante_, here; but owing to +my absorption in the Infant, I clean forgot to read it! Heaven send I +haven't dropped it anywhere!" + +He stood with his back to the stove, hunting vaguely, but feverishly, in +all his pockets. + +Aubrey smoked on, watching him without stirring. + +Aubrey was wishing that Helen could know how long her letter had +remained unread, owing to the Infant of Prague. + +At length Ronnie found the letter--a large, square foreign +envelope--safely stowed away in his pocket-book, in the inner +breast-pocket of his coat. + +"Of course," he said. "I remember. I put it there when I was writing +Zimmermann's cheque. You will excuse me if I read it straight away? +There may be something requiring a wire." + +"Naturally, my dear fellow; read it. Cousins need not stand on ceremony; +and the Infant now being thoroughly in tune, your mind is free to spare +a thought or two to Helen. Don't delay another moment. There may be a +message in the letter for me." + +Ronnie drew the thin sheets from the envelope in feverish haste. + +As he did so, a folded note fell from among them unseen by Ronnie, and +dropped to the floor close to Aubrey's foot. + +Ronnie began reading; but black spots danced before his eyes, and +Helen's beautiful clear writing zig-zagged up and down the page. + +Presently his vision cleared a little and he read more easily. + +Suddenly he laughed, a short, rather mirthless, laugh. + +"What's up?" inquired Aubrey Treherne. + +"Oh, nothing much; only I suppose I'm in for a lecture again! Helen +says: 'Ronald'--" Ronnie lifted his eyes from the paper. "What a +nuisance it is to own that kind of name. As a small boy I was always +'Ronnie' when people were pleased, and 'Ronald' if I was in for a +wigging. The feeling of it sticks to you all your life." + +"Of course it does," said Aubrey sympathetically. "Beastly hard lines. +Well? Helen says 'Ronald'--?" + +Ronnie's eyes sought the paper again; but once more the black spots +danced in a wild shower. He rubbed his eyes and went on reading. + +"'Ronald, I shall have something to tell you when you get home, which +will make a great difference to this Christmas, and to all +Christmas-times to come. I will not put it into a letter. I will wait +until you are here, and I can say it.'" + +"What can it be?" questioned Aubrey. + +"Oh, I know," said Ronnie, unsteadily--the floor was becoming soft and +sandy again. "I have heard it all before. She always thinks me +extravagant at Christmas, and objects to her old people being given +champagne and other seasonable good things. I have heard--heard it--all +before. There was no need to write about it. And when she--when she says +it, I shall jolly well tell her that a--that a--a fellow can do as he +likes with his own earnings." + +"I should," said Aubrey Treherne. + +Ronald went on reading, in silence. + +Aubrey's eye was upon the folded sheet of paper on the floor. + +Suddenly Ronnie said: "Hullo! I'm to have it after all! Listen to this. +'P.S.--On second thoughts, now you are so nearly home, I would rather +you knew what I have to say, before your return; so I am enclosing with +this a pencil note I wrote some weeks ago. _Ronnie, we will have a +Christmas-tree this Christmas_.' Well, I never!" said Ronnie. "That's +not a very wild thing in the way of extravagance, is it? But it's a +concession. I have wanted a Christmas-tree each Christmas. But Helen +said you couldn't have a Christmas-tree in a home where there were no +kids; it was absurd for two grownup people to give each other a +Christmas-tree. Now, where is--" He began searching in the empty +envelope. + +With a quick stealthy movement, Aubrey put his foot upon the note. + +"It is not here," said Ronnie, shaking out the thin sheets one by one, +and tearing open the envelope. "She has forgotten it, after all. Well--I +should think it will keep. It can hardly have been important." + +"Evidently," remarked Aubrey, "third thoughts followed second thoughts. +Even Helen would scarcely put a lecture on economy into a welcome-home +letter." + +"No, of course not," agreed Ronnie, and walked unsteadily to his chair. + +Aubrey, stooping, transferred the note from beneath his foot to his +pocket. + +Ronald read his letter through again, then turned to Aubrey. + +"Look here," he said. "I must send a wire. Helen wants to know whether I +wish her to meet me in town, or whether I would rather she waited for +me at home. What shall I say?" + +Aubrey Treherne rose. "Think it over," he said, "while I fetch a form." + +He left the room. + +He was some time in finding that form. + +When he returned his face was livid, his hand shook. + +Ronald sat in absorbed contemplation of the Infant. + +"It appears more perfect every time one sees it," he remarked, without +looking at Aubrey. + +Aubrey handed him a form for foreign telegrams, and a fountain pen. + +"What are you going to say to--to your wife?" he asked in a low voice. + +"I don't know," said Ronnie, vaguely. "What a jolly pen! What am I to do +with this?" + +"You are to let Helen know whether she is to meet you in town, or to +wait at the Grange." + +"Ah, I remember. What do you advise, Treherne? I don't seem able to +make plans." + +"I should say most decidedly, let her wait for you at home." + +"Yes, I think so too. I shall be rushing around in town. I can get home +before tea-time. How shall I word it?" + +"Why not say: _Owing to satisfactory news in letter, prefer to meet you +quietly at home. All well._" + +Ronnie wrote this at Aubrey's dictation; then he paused. + +"What news?" he asked, perplexed at the words he himself had written. + +"Why--that Helen is quite well. Isn't that satisfactory news?" + +"Oh, of course. I see. Yes." + +"Then you might add: _Will wire train from London._" + +"But I know the train now," objected Ronnie. "I have been thinking of it +for weeks! I shall catch the 3 o'clock express." + +"Very well, then add: _Coming by 3 o'clock train. Home to tea._" + +Ronnie wrote it--a joyous smile on his lips and in his eyes. + +"It sounds so near," he said. "After seven long months--it sounds so +near!" + +"Now," said Aubrey, "give it to me. I will take it out for you. I know +an office where one can hand in wires at any hour." + +"You _are_ a good fellow," said Ronnie gratefully. + +"And now look here," continued Aubrey. "Before I go, you must turn into +bed, old chap. You need sleep more than you know. I can do a little +prescribing myself. I am going to give you a dose of sleeping stuff +which brought me merciful oblivion, after long nights of maddening +wakefulness. You will feel another man, when you wake in the morning. +But I am coming with you to the Hague. I can tend the Infant, while you +go to the publishers. I will see you safely on board at the Hook, on the +following evening, and next day you will be at home. After all those +months alone in the long grass, you don't want any more solitary +travelling. Now come to bed." + +Ronnie rose unsteadily. "Aubrey," he said, "you are a most awfully good +fellow. I shall tell Helen. She will--will--will be so--so grateful. I'm +perfectly all right, you know; but other people seem so--so busy, +and--and--so vague. You will help me to--to--to--arrest their attention. +I must take the Infant to bed." + +"Yes, yes," said Aubrey; "we will find a cosy place for the Infant. If +Helen were here she would provide a bassinet. Don't forget that joke. It +will amuse Helen. I make you a present of it. _If Helen were here she +would provide a bassinet and a pram for the Infant of Prague_." + +Ronnie laughed. "I shall tell Helen you said so." Then, carrying the +'cello, he lurched unsteadily through the doorway. The Infant's head had +a narrow escape. + + * * * * * + +Aubrey Treherne sent off the telegram. He required to alter only one +word. + +When it reached Helen, the next morning at breakfast, it read thus: +_Owing to astonishing news in letter prefer to meet you quietly at home. +All well. Coming by 3 o'clock train. Home to tea_.--_Ronald_. + +Helen suffered a sharp pang of disappointment. She had expected +something quite different. The adjective "astonishing" seemed strangely +cold and unlike Ronnie. She had thought he would say "wonderful," or +"unbelievable," or "glorious." + +But before she had finished her first cup of coffee, she had reasoned +herself back into complete content. Ronnie, in an unusual fit of +thoughtfulness, had remembered her feeling about the publicity of +telegrams. She had so often scolded him for putting "darling" and "best +of love" into messages which all had to be shouted by telephone from the +postal town, into the little village office which, being also the +village grocery store, was a favourite rendezvous at all hours of the +day for village gossips. + +It was quite unusually considerate of Ronnie to curb the glowing words +he must have longed to pour forth. The very effort of that curbing, had +reduced him to a somewhat stilted adjective. + +So Helen finished her lonely breakfast with thoughts of glad +anticipation. Ronnie's return was drawing so near. Only two more +breakfasts without him. At the third she would be pouring out his +coffee, and hearing him comment on the excellence of Blake's hot +buttered toast! + +Then, with a happy heart, she went up to the nursery. + +Yet--unconsciously--the pang remained. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +A FRIEND IN NEED + + +As Aubrey Treherne, on his way back from despatching the telegram, stood +in the general entrance hall, fumbling with the latch-key at the door of +his own flat, a tall young man in an ulster dashed up the wide stone +stairs, rapidly read the names on the various brass plates, and arrived +at Aubrey's just as his door had yielded to persuasion and was admitting +him into his own small passage. + +"Hullo," said a very British voice. "Do you happen to be Ronald West's +wife's cousin?" + +Aubrey turned in the doorway, taking stock of his interlocutor. He saw a +well-knit, youthful figure, a keen resourceful face, and a pair of +exceedingly bright brown eyes, unwavering in the steady penetration of +their regard. Already they had taken him in, from top to toe, and were +looking past him in a rapid investigation of as much of his flat as +could be seen from the doorway. + +Aubrey was caught! + +He had fully intended muffling his electric bell, and not being at home +to visitors. + +But this brisk young man, with an atmosphere about him of always being +ten minutes ahead of time, already had one of his very muddy boots +inside the door, and eagerly awaited the answer to his question; so it +was useless to reply to the latter in German, and to bang the former. + +Therefore: "I have that honour," replied Aubrey, with the best grace he +could muster. + +"Ah! Well, I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I must have a word with +you; and then I am going round to spend the night with Ronnie at his +hotel." + +"Come in," said Aubrey, in a low voice; "but we must not talk in the +passage or we shall wake him. I saw he was not fit to be alone, so I +sent to the hotel for his traps, and am putting him up here. He turned +in, half an hour ago, and seemed really inclined to sleep. He was almost +off, when I left him." + +Aubrey, closing the door, led the way to his sitting-room, where the +three easy chairs were still drawn up before the stove. + +"I conclude you are Dr. Cameron," said Aubrey, turning up the light, and +motioning his visitor to the chair which had lately been Ronnie's. + +"Yes, I am Dick Cameron, Ronnie's particular chum; and if ever he needed +a particular chum, poor old chap, he does so at this moment. But I am +glad he has found a friend in you, and one really able to undertake him. +You did right not to leave him at the hotel; and he must not travel back +to England alone." + +"I have already arranged to accompany him," said Aubrey Treherne. + +"Good; it will save me a journey." + +Dick pulled off his ulster, threw it across the red velvet sofa, flung +his cap after it, and took the proffered chair. + +In his blue serge suit and gay tie, he looked like the captain of a +college football team. + +Aubrey, eyeing him with considerable reserve and distaste, silently took +up his position in the chair opposite. He felt many years older than +this peremptory young man, who appeared to consider himself master of +all situations. + +Dick turned his bright eyes on to the empty chair between them. + +"So Ronnie has spent the evening with you?" + +"He has." + +"Who was the third party?" + +"The third party was the Infant of Prague." + +"Oh, bother that rotten Infant!" exclaimed Dr. Dick. "I came near to +putting my foot through its shining tummy this morning! Still it may +serve its silly use, if it takes his mind off his book, until we can get +him safely home. I suppose you know, sir, that Ronald West is about as +ill as a man can be? It will be touch and go whether we can get him home +before the crash comes." + +"I thought he seemed excited and unwell," said Aubrey. "What do you +consider is the cause of his condition?" + +"Well, the bother is, we can't exactly tell. But I should say he has +been letting himself in for constant exposure to extreme heat by day, +and to swampy dampness by night; not taking proper food; living in a +whirl of excited imagination with no rational companionship to form an +outlet; and, on the top of all this, contracted some malarial germ, +which has put up his temperature and destroyed the power of natural +sleep. This condition of brain has enabled him to work practically night +and day at his manuscript, and I have no doubt he has written brilliant +stuff, which an enchanted world will read by-and-by, with no notion of +the price which has been paid for their pleasure and edification. But +meanwhile, unless proper steps are taken to avert disaster, our friend +Ronnie will be, by then, unable to understand or to enjoy his triumph." + +Aubrey's lean face flushed. "I hope you are taking an exaggerated view," +he said. + +"I hope you understand," retorted Dr. Dick, "that I am doing nothing of +the kind. I cannot tell you precisely what course the illness will run; +the nuisance of these African jungle poisons is that we know precious +little about them. But I have known Ronnie since he and I were at school +together, and any poison goes straight to his brain. If he gets +influenza, he never sneezes and snuffles like an ordinary mortal, but +walks about, more or less light-headed, all day; and lies dry awake, +staring at the ceiling all night." + +"What do you recommend in this case?" + +"Ah, there we arrive at my reason for coming to you. _I_ don't know +Ronnie's wife. I conclude _you_ do." + +"She is my first cousin. I have known her intimately all her life." + +"Can you write to her to-night, and mail the letter so that it will +reach her before he arrives home?" + +"I have every intention of doing so." + +Dick Cameron sat forward, eagerly. + +"Good! It will come better from you than from a total stranger. No +doubt I am known to her by name; but we have never chanced to meet. +Without alarming her too much, I want you to make Ronnie's condition +quite clear to her. Tell her he must be kept absolutely quiet and happy +on his return; and, with as little delay as may be, she must have the +best advice procurable." + +"Whom would you recommend?" + +"To be quite honest, I am afraid a brain specialist. But I will give you +the name of a man who has also made a special study of the conditions +caused by malarial fever, and exposure to tropical heat." + +Dick produced a note-book, wrote down a name and address, tore out the +leaf, and handed it to Aubrey. + +"There! You can't do better than that. Of course it is everything that +you are taking him right home. But, even so, let your letter get there +first. You might have difficulty in seeing Mrs. West alone, and mischief +might be done in a moment, which you would be powerless to prevent. Tell +her, that above all else, she must avoid any sort of shock for him. A +violent emotion of any kind would probably send him clean off his head." + +"I am sure you are right, there," said Aubrey. "He suddenly became +violent to-night, while we were talking about his 'cello; got up, +staggered across, and struck me on the mouth." + +Dr. Dick's keen eyes were instantly bent upon Aubrey Treherne in +perplexed scrutiny. + +Aubrey shifted uncomfortably in his seat; then rose and put fuel into +the stove. + +Still Dick sat silent. + +When Aubrey resumed his seat, Dick spoke--slowly, as if carefully +weighing every word. + +"Now that is peculiar," he said. "Ronnie's mental condition is a +perfectly amiable one, unless anything was said or done to cause him +extreme provocation. In fact, he would not be easily provoked. He is +inclined rather to take a maudlinly affectionate and friendly view of +things and people; to be very simply, almost childishly, pleased with +the last new idea. That wretched Infant of his is a case in point. I +should be glad if you would tell me, sir, what happened in this room +just before Ronnie hit out." + +"Merely a conversation about the 'cello," replied Aubrey, hurriedly. "A +perfectly simple remark of mine apparently annoyed him. But I soon +pacified him. He was obviously not responsible for his actions." + +"He was obviously in a frenzy of rage," remarked Dr. Dick, drily; "and +he caught you a good one on the mouth. Did he apologise afterwards?" + +"He fell asleep," said Aubrey, "and appeared on awaking to have +absolutely forgotten the occurrence." + +Dick got up, put his hands in his pockets, walked over to the organ, +and, bending down, examined the stops. He whistled softly to himself as +he did so. + +Aubrey, meanwhile, had the uncomfortable sensation that the whole scene +with Ronnie was being re-acted, with Dick Cameron as an interested +spectator. + +It tried Aubrey's nerves. + +"I do not wish to hurry you," he suggested presently. "But if I am to +post my letter to my cousin before midnight, the sooner I am able to +write it, the better." + +Dick turned at once and took up his ulster. + +Aubrey, relieved, came forward cordially to lend him a hand. + +"No, thank you," said Dr. Dick. "A man should always get into his coat +unaided. In so doing, he uses certain muscles which are exercised in no +other way." + +He swung himself into the heavy coat, and stood before Aubrey +Treherne--very tall, very grave, very determined. + +"You quite understand, sir, that if you were not yourself taking Ronnie +home, I should do so? And if, by any chance, you are prevented from +going, just let me know, and I can be packed and ready to start home +with him in a quarter of an hour." + +"Very good of you," said Aubrey, "but all our plans are made. We reach +the Hague to-morrow night. He requires a day there for making his +translation and publishing arrangements. So we sleep at the Hague +to-morrow, crossing by the Hook of Holland on the following evening. I +have wired to the Hotel des Indes for a suite. I feel sure my cousin +would wish him to have the best of everything, and to be absolutely +comfortable and quiet. At the Hotel des Indes they have an excellent +orchestra, and a particularly fine 'cellist. West will enjoy showing him +the Infant. They can compare babies! It will keep him amused and +interested all the evening." + +"Good idea," agreed Dr. Dick. "But Ronnie need not come down on his wife +for his hotel expenses! He is making a pot of money himself, now. You +will be careful to report to Mrs. West exactly what I have said of his +condition?" + +"I will write immediately. As we stay a night _en route_, and another is +taken up in crossing, my cousin should receive my letter twenty-four +hours before our arrival." + +"Impress upon her," said Dr. Dick, earnestly, "how dangerous any mental +shock might be." + +"Do you fear brain fever?" questioned Aubrey. + +Dick laughed. "Brain fever is a popular fiction," he said. "It is not a +term admitted by the faculty. If you mean meningitis--no, I trust not. +But probably temporary loss of memory, and a complete upsetting of +mental control; with a possible impairing, for a considerable time, of +his brilliant mental powers." + +"In other words, my cousin's husband is threatened with insanity." + +"Lor, no!" exclaimed Dick, with vehemence. "How easily you good people +hand a fellow-creature over to that darkest of all fates! Ronnie's +condition is brought about by temporary circumstances which are not in +the least likely to have permanent results. He has always had the +eccentricity of genius; but, since his genius has been recognised, +people have ceased to consider him eccentric. Now I must be off. But I +will see him first. Will you show me his room?" "He is asleep," +objected Aubrey. "Is it not a pity to disturb him?" + +"I doubt his being asleep," replied Dick. "But if he is, we shall not +wake him." + +He stepped into the passage, his attitude one of uncompromising +determination. + +Aubrey Treherne opened the door of Ronnie's room. It was in darkness. He +stepped back into the passage, lighted a candle, handed it to Dick +Cameron, and they entered quietly together. + +Ronnie lay on his back, sleeping heavily. His eyes were partly open, his +face flushed, his breathing rapid. One arm was flung out toward a chair +beside the bed, on which lay his pocket-book, his watch, and a small +leather miniature-case containing a portrait of Helen. This lay open +upon the watch, having evidently fallen from his fingers. A candle had +burned down into the socket, and spluttered itself out. + +Dick picked up the miniature, held it close to the light of his own +candle, and examined it critically. + +"He certainly went in for beauty," he remarked in a low voice to Aubrey +Treherne, as he laid the miniature beside the pocket-book. "Of course +Ronnie would. But it is also a noble face--a face one could altogether +trust. Ronnie will be in safe hands when once you get him home." + +Aubrey's smile, in the flare of the candle, was the grin of a hungry +wolf. He made no reply. + +Dr. Dick, watch in hand, stood silently beside the bed, counting the +rapid respiration of his friend. Then he turned, took up an empty +tumbler from the table behind him, smelt it, and looked at Aubrey +Treherne. + +"I thought so," he said. "You meant well, no doubt. But don't do it +again. Drugs to produce sleep may occasionally be necessary, but should +only be given under careful medical supervision. Personally, I am +inclined to think that any sort of artificial sleep does more harm to a +delicately poised brain, than insomnia. However, opinions differ. But +there is no question that your experiment of to-night must not be +repeated. I have given him stuff to take during his homeward journey +which will tend to calm him, lessen the fever, and clear his mind. See +that he takes it." + +Young Dick Cameron walked out of Ronnie's room, blew out the candle he +carried, and replaced the candlestick on a little ornamental bracket. + +Aubrey followed, inwardly fuming. + +If Dick had been at the top of the tree, the first opinion procurable +from Harley Street, W., his manner could hardly have been more +authoritative, his instructions more peremptory. + +"Upstart!" said Aubrey to himself. "Insolent Jackanapes!" + +When Dick Cameron reached the outer door his cap was on the back of his +head, his hands were thrust deep into his coat pockets. + +"Good-evening," he said. "Excuse my long intrusion. I shall be immensely +obliged if you will let me have a wire reporting your safe arrival, and +a letter, later on, with details as to Ronnie's state. I put my address +on the paper I gave you just now, with the name of the man Mrs. West +must call in." + +Dick crossed the great entrance-hall, and ran lightly down the stone +steps. + +Aubrey heard the street door close behind him. + +Then he shut and double locked his own flat. + +"Upstart!" he said. "Jackanapes! Insolent fool!" + +It is sometimes consoling to call people that which you know they are +not, yet heartily wish they were. + +Aubrey entered his sitting-room. He wanted an immediate vent for his +ill-humour and sense of impotent mortification. + +The leaf from Dick's note-book lay on the table. + +Aubrey took it up, opened the iron door of the stove, and thrust the +leaf into the very heart of the fire. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +PARADISE LOST + + +Aubrey Treherne sat at his writing-table, his head buried in his hands. + +Before him lay the closely-written sheets of his letter to Helen; beside +them her pencil note which had fallen, unnoticed by Ronnie, from her +letter to him. + +Presently Aubrey lifted his head. His face bore traces of the anguish of +soul through which he had been passing. + +A man who has yielded himself to unrestrained wrong-doing, suffers with +a sharpness of cold misery unknown to the brave true heart, however hard +or lonely may be his honourable way. + +Before finally reading his own letter to Helen, Aubrey read again her +pathetic note to her husband. + +"Ronnie, my own! + +"Excuse pencil and bad writing. Nurse has propped me up in bed, but not +so high as I should like. + +"Darling, I am not ill, only rather weak, and very, very happy. + +"Ronnie, I must write to you on this first day of being allowed a +pencil, though I shall not, of course, yet send the letter. In fact, I +daresay I shall keep it, and give it to you by-and-by. But you will like +to feel that I wrote at once. + +"Darling, how shall I tell you? Beside me, in your empty place, as I +write, lies your little son--our own baby-boy, Ronnie! + +"He came three days ago. + +"Oh, Ronnie, it is so wonderful! He is _so_ like you; though his tiny +fingers are all pink and crinkled, and his palms are like little +sea-shells. But he is going to have your artistic hands. When I cuddle +them against my neck, the awful longing and loneliness of these past +months seem wiped out. But only because he is yours, darling, and +because I know you are soon coming back to him and to me. + +"I could not tell you before you went, because I know you would have +felt obliged to give up going, and your book is so important; and I have +not told you since, because you must not have anything to worry you +while so far away. Also I was glad to bear it alone, and to save you the +hard part. One soon forgets the hardness, in the joy. + +"Jane was with me. + +"We are sending no announcement to the papers, for fear you should see +it on the way home. Very few people know. + +"Our little son will be six weeks old, when you get back. I shall be +quite strong again. + +"I hope you will be able to read this tiny writing. Nurse would only +give me one sheet of paper! + +"His eyes are blue. His little mouth is just like yours. I kiss it, but +it doesn't kiss back! He is a darling, Ronnie, but--he isn't you! + +"Come back soon, to your more than ever loving wife, + + "HELEN. + +"Yes, the smudgy places _are_ tears, but only because I am rather weak, +and so happy." + + +Crossing the first page came a short postscript, in firmer hand-writing: + + +"After all I am sending this to Leipzig. I daren't not tell you before +you arrive. I sometimes feel as if I had done something wrong! Tell me, +directly you take me in your arms, that I did right, and that you are +glad. I am down, as usual, now, and baby is quite well." + +Aubrey's hands shook as he folded the thin paper, opened a drawer, +pushed the letter far into it, and locked the drawer. + +Then, with set face, he turned to his own letter to Ronald West's wife. + + +"My own Beloved-- + +"Yes, I call you so still, because you _were_ mine, and _are_ mine. You +threw me over, giving me no chance to prove that my love for you had +made me worthy--that I would have been worthy. You sent me into outer +darkness, where there was wailing and gnashing of teeth; where the worm +of remorse dies--never. But, through it all, I loved you still. I love +you to-night, as I never loved you before. The whole world is nothing to +me, excepting as the place on which you walk. + +"I have seen the man--- the selfish, self-absorbed fool--on whom you +threw yourself away, six months after you had cast me adrift. At this +moment he is my guest, snoring in an adjoining room while I sit up +writing to you. + +"He has spent the evening talking of nothing but himself, his journey, +his wonderful book--the strongest thing he has done yet, etc., etc., +etc.; till I could have risen up and strangled him with my two hands. +Oh, Helen--my lovely one--he is altogether unworthy of you! I saw a +letter of yours long ago, in which you said he was like a young +sun-god. Handsome he is, I admit. He says he has never felt fitter in +his life, and he looks it. But surely a woman wants more than mere +vitality and vigour and outward beauty of appearance? Heart--he has +none. The wonderful news in your letter has left him unmoved. He thinks +more of a 'cello he has just bought than he does of your little son. +When I remonstrated with him, he rose up and struck me on the mouth. But +I forgave him for your sake, and he now sleeps under my roof. + +"Helen, he _must_ have disappointed you over and over again. He will +continue to disappoint you. + +"Helen, you loved me once; and when a woman loves once, she loves for +always. + +"Helen, if he could leave you alone during seven months, in order to get +local scenery for a wretched manuscript, he will leave you again, and +again, and yet again. He married you for your money; he has practically +admitted it to me; but now that he is making a yearly income larger +than your own, he has no more use for you. + +"Oh, my beloved--my queen--my only Love--don't stay with a man who is +altogether unworthy of you! If a man disappoints a woman she has a right +to leave him. He is not what she believed him to be; that fact sets her +free. If you had found out, afterwards, that he was already married to +another, would you not have left him? Well, he _was_ already wedded to +himself and to his career. He had no whole-hearted devotion to give to +you. + +"Helen, don't wait for his return. Directly you get this come out here +to me. Bring your little son and his nurse. My flat will be absolutely +at your disposal. I can sleep elsewhere; and I swear to you I will never +stay one moment after you have bid me go. As soon as West has set you +legally free, we can marry and travel abroad for a couple of years; +then, when the whole thing has blown over, go back to live in the old +house so dear to us both. + +"Helen, you will have twenty-four hours in which to get away before he +returns. But even if you decide to await his return, it will not be too +late. His utter self-absorption must give you a final disillusion. + +"See if his first words to you are not about his cursed 'cello, rather +than about his child and yours. + +"If so, treat him with the silent contempt he deserves, and come at once +to the man who won you first and to whom you have always belonged; come, +where tenderest consideration and the worship of a lifetime await you. + +"Yours till death--- and after, + + "AUBREY TREHERNE." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE PINNACLE OF THE TEMPLE + + +Aubrey's letter fell upon Helen as a crushing, stunning blow. + +At first her womanhood reeled beneath it. + +"What have I been--what have I done," she cried, "that a man dares to +write thus to me?" + +Then her wifehood rose up in arms as she thought of Ronnie's gay, boyish +trust in her; their happy life together; his joyous love and laughter. + +She clenched her hands. + +"I could _kill_ Aubrey Treherne!" she said. + +Then her motherhood arose; and bowing her proud head, she burst into a +passion of tears. + +At length she stood up and walked over to the window. + +"It will be bad for my little son if I weep," she said, and smiled +through her tears. + +The trees were leafless, the garden beds empty. The park looked sodden, +dank and cheerless. Summer was long dead and over, yet frosts had not +begun, bringing suggestions of mistletoe and holly. + +But the mists were lifting, fading in white wreaths from off the grass; +and, at that moment, the wintry sun, bursting through the November +clouds, shone on the diamond panes, illumining the cross and the motto +beneath it. + +"_In hoc vince!_" murmured Helen. "As I told my own dear boy, the path +of clear shining is the way to victory. _In hoc signo vinces!_ I will +take this gleam of sunlight as a token of triumph. By the help of God, I +will write such an answer to Aubrey as shall lead him to overcome his +evil desires, and bring his dark soul out into the light of repentance +and confession." + +The same post had brought her a short letter from Ronnie, written +immediately on his arrival at Leipzig, evidently before receiving hers. +It was a disappointment to have nothing more. As Aubrey had got a letter +through after hearing the news, Ronnie might have done the same. + +But perhaps, face to face with her wonderful tidings, words had +altogether failed him. He feared to spoil all he would so soon be able +to say, by attempting to write. + +To-morrow--the day which should bring him to her--would soon be here. + +Meanwhile her reply to Aubrey must be posted to-day, and his letter +consigned to the flames. + +Feeling unable to go to the nursery with that letter unanswered, she sat +down at once and wrote to her cousin. + + +"I only read your letter, Aubrey, half an hour ago. I am answering it at +once, because I cannot enter the presence of my little son, with such a +letter as yours still in my possession. As soon as I have answered it I +shall burn it. + +"I may then be able to rise above the terrible sense of shame which +completely overwhelmed me at first, at the thought that any man--above +all a man who knew me well--should dare to write me such a letter! + +"At first my whole soul cried out in horror: 'What am I? What have I +been? What have I done--that such words should be written--such a +proposition made--to me?' The sin of it seemed to soil me; the burning +wickedness, to brand me. I seemed parted from my husband and my child, +and dragged down with you into your abyss of outer darkness. + +"Then, into my despair, sacred words were whispered for my comfort. 'He +was in all points tempted, like as we are, _yet without sin_,' and, +through my shame and tears, I saw a vision of the Holy One, standing +serene and kingly on the pinnacle of the temple, where, though the devil +dared to whisper the fiendish suggestion: 'Cast Thyself down,' He stood +His ground without a tremor--tempted, yet unsoiled. + +"So--with this vision of my Lord before me--I take my stand, Aubrey +Treherne, upon the very summit of the holy temple of wifehood and +motherhood, and I say to you: 'Get thee gone, Satan!' You may have bowed +my mind to the very dust in shame over your wicked words, but you cannot +cause my womanhood to descend one step from off its throne. + +"This being so, poor Aubrey, I feel able to forgive you the other great +wrong, and to try to find words in which to prove to you the utter +vileness of the sin, and yet to show you also the way out of your abyss +of darkness and despair, into the clear shining of repentance, +confession, and forgiveness. + +"As regards the happenings of the past, between you and me--you state +them wrongly. I did not love you, Aubrey, or I would never have sent you +away. I could have forgiven anything to an honest man, who had merely +failed and fallen. + +"But you had lived a double life; you had deceived me all along the +line. I had loved the man I thought you were--the man you had led me to +believe you were. I did not love the man I found you out to be. + +"I could not marry a man I did not love. Therefore, I sent you away. +There was no question then of giving you, or not giving you, a chance to +prove yourself worthy. I was not concerned just then with what you might +eventually prove yourself. I did not love you; therefore, I could not +wed you. Though, as a side issue, it is only fair to point out--if you +wish to stand upon your possible merits--that this letter, written four +years later, confirms my then estimate of your true character. + +"Aubrey, I cannot discuss my husband with you; nor can I bring myself to +allude to the subject of my relations with him, or his with me. + +"To defend him to you would be to degrade him in all honest eyes. + +"To enlarge upon my love for him, would be like pouring crystal water +into a stagnant polluted pool, in order to prove how pure was the +fountain from which that water flowed. Nothing could be gained by such +a proceeding. Pouring samples of its purity into the tainted waters of +the pool, would neither prove the former, nor cleanse the latter. + +"But, in order to free my own mind from the poison of your suggestions +and the shame of the fact that they were made to me, I must answer, in +the abstract, one statement in your letter. Please understand that I +answer it completely in the abstract. You have dared to apply it to my +husband and to me. I do not admit that it applies. But, even if it did, +I should not let it pass unchallenged. I break a lance with you, Aubrey +Treherne, and with all men of your way of thinking, on behalf of every +true wife and mother in Christendom! + +"You say, that if a man has disappointed his wife, she has a right to +leave him; the fact of that disappointment sets her free? + +"I say to you, in answer: when a woman loves a man enough to wed him, he +becomes to her as her life--her very self. + +"I often fail, and fall, and disappoint myself. I do not thereupon +immediately feel free to commit suicide. I face my failure, resolve to +do better, and take up my life again, as bravely as may be, on higher +lines. + +"If a woman leaves her husband she commits moral suicide. By virtue of +his union with her, he is as her own self. If disappointment and +disillusion come to her through him, she must face them as she does when +they come through herself. She must be patient, faithful, understanding, +tender; helping him, as she would help herself, to start afresh on +higher ground; once more, with a holy courage, facing life bravely. + +"This is my answer--every true woman's answer--to the subtle suggestions +of your letter. + +"I admit that often marriages turn out hopeless--impossible; mere +prisons of degradation. But that is when the sacred tie is entered into +for other than the essential reasons of a perfect love and mutual need; +or without due consideration, 'unadvisedly, lightly, wantonly,' +notwithstanding the Church's warning. Or when people have found out +their mistake in time, yet lacked the required courage to break their +engagement, as I broke off mine with you, Aubrey; thus saving you and +myself a lifetime of regret and misery. + +"Oh, cannot you see that the only real 'outer darkness' is the doing of +wrong? Disappointment, loss, loneliness, remorse--all these may be hard +to bear, but they can be borne in the light; they do not necessarily +belong to the outer darkness. + +"May I ask you, as some compensation for the pain your letter has given +me, and the terrible effort this answer has cost, to bear with me if, in +closing, I quote to you in full the final words of the first chapter of +the first epistle of St. John? I do so with my heart full of hope and +prayer for you--yes, even for you, Aubrey. Because, though _my_ words +will probably fail to influence you, God has promised that _His_ Word +shall never return unto Him void. + +"'If we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship +one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us +from all sin.... If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to +forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' + +"Oh, Aubrey, act on this! It is true. + +"Your cousin, who still hopes better things of you, and who will not +fail in thought and prayer, + + "HELEN WEST." + +Part III + + + + +CHAPTER X + +RONNIE ARRIVES IN A FOG + + +Ronnie reached Liverpool Street Station at 8 o'clock on a foggy November +morning. + +After the quiet night on the steamer, the landing in darkness at +Harwich, and the steady run up to town, alone in a first-class +compartment, he felt momentarily confused by the noise and movement +within the great city terminus. + +The brilliant lights of the station, combined with the yellow fog +rolling in from the various entrances; the onward rush of many feet, as +hundreds of busy men and eager young women poured out of suburban +trains, hurrying to the scenes which called for their energy during the +whole of the coming day; the gliding in and out of trains, the passing +to and fro of porters, wheeling heavy luggage; the clang of milk-cans, +the hoot of taxi-cabs, and, beyond it all, the distant roar of London, +awaking, and finding its way about heavily, like an angry old giant in +the fog--all seemed to Ronnie to be but another of the queer nightmares +which came to him now with exhausting frequency. + +As a rule, he found it best to wait until they passed off. So, holding +the Infant of Prague in its canvas case in one hand, and the bag +containing his manuscript in the other, he stood quite still upon the +platform, waiting for the roar to cease, the rush to pass by, the +nightmare to be over. + +Presently an Inspector who knew Ronnie walked down the platform. He +paused at once, with the ready and attentive courtesy of the London +railway official. + +"Any luggage, Mr. West?" he asked, lifting his cap. + +"No, thank you," replied Ronnie, "not to-day." + +He knew he had luggage somewhere--heaps of it. But what was the good of +hunting up luggage in a nightmare? Dream luggage was not worth +retrieving. Besides, the more passive you are, the sooner the delusion +leaves off tormenting you. + +"Have you come from the Hook, sir?" inquired the inspector. + +"Yes," said Ronnie. "Did you think I had come from the Eye?" + +He knew it was a vile pun, but it seemed exactly the sort of thing one +says in a nightmare. + +The inspector laughed, and passed on; then returned, looking rather +searchingly at Ronnie. + +Ronnie thought it well to explain further. "As a matter of fact, my +friend," he said, "I have come from Central Africa, where I have been +sitting round camp-fires, in company with asps and cockatrices, and +other interesting creatures. I am writing a book about it--the best +thing I have done yet." + +The inspector had read and enjoyed all Ronnie's books. He smiled +uneasily. Asps and cockatrices sounded queer company. + +"Won't you have a cup of coffee, sir, before going out into the fog?" +he suggested. + +"Ah--good idea!" said Ronnie; and made his way to the refreshment room. + +It was empty at this early hour, and quiet. All the people with rushing +feet and vaguely busy faces had breakfasted at a still earlier hour, in +their own cosy homes. Their wives had made their coffee. To-morrow Helen +would pour out his coffee. It seemed an almost unbelievably happy +thought. How came such rapture to be connected with coffee? + +He spent a minute or two in deciding at which of the many little marble +tables he would sit. He never remembered being offered so large or so +varied a choice at Liverpool Street Station before. You generally made a +dash for the only empty table you saw, usually close to the door. That +was like Hobson's choice--this or none! A stable of forty good steeds, +always ready and fit for travelling, but the customer must take the +horse which stood nearest to the door! + +Well, to-day he had the run of the stable. Forty good marble tables! +Which should he choose? + +The young women behind the counter watched him with interest as he +wandered about, carefully examining each table and sitting down +tentatively at several. At last he chose the most central, as being the +furthest removed from Hobson's choice; sat down, took the Infant out of +its bag, and, screwing in its pointed foot, leaned it up against another +chair at the table. + +Then he found that one of the young women had come from behind the +counter, and was standing at his elbow, patiently awaiting his pleasure. + +He ordered a cup of coffee and a roll and butter, for himself; a glass +of milk and a sponge-cake for the Infant. + +Just after these were served, before he had had time to drink the +steaming hot coffee, the friendly inspector arrived, accompanied by +another railway official. They said they had come to make sure Ronnie +had found what he wanted in the refreshment room. + +Ronnie thanked them for their civility, and showed them the Infant. + +They looked at it with surprise and interest; but nudged one another +when they noticed the glass of milk and the sponge-cake, which Ronnie +had carefully pushed across to the Infant's side of the table. + +Then they saluted, and went out. + +Left alone, Ronnie drank his coffee. + +It instantly cleared his brain of the after-effects of the sleeping +draught which Aubrey had insisted upon giving him just before the +steamer sailed the night before. His surroundings ceased to appear +dream-like. A great wave of happiness swept over him. + +Why, he was in London again! He was almost at home! If he had let Helen +meet him, she might have been sitting just opposite, at this little +marble table! + +He looked across and saw the unconscious Infant's glass of milk and +sponge-cake. He drew them hurriedly towards him. He felt suddenly +ashamed of them. It was possible to carry a joke too far in public. He +knew Helen would say: "Don't be silly, Ronnie!" + +He particularly disliked milk, and was not fond of sponge-cakes; but he +hastily drank the one and ate the other. He could think of no other way +of disposing of them. He hoped the young women who were watching him +from behind the counter, would think he enjoyed them. + +Then he called for a whisky and soda, to take out the exceedingly +beastly taste of the milk; but instantly remembered that old Dick had +said: "Touch no alcohol," so changed the order to another cup of coffee. + +This second instalment of coffee made him feel extraordinarily fit and +vigorous. + +He put the Infant back into its bag. + +The inspector returned. + +"We have found your luggage, Mr. West," he said. "If we may have your +keys we can get it out for you." + +"Ah, do!" said Ronnie. "Many thanks. Put it on a taxi. I shall leave it +at my Club. I am afraid I was rather vague about it just now; but I had +been given a sleeping draught on board, and was hardly awake when I got +out of the train. I am all right now. Thanks for your help, my good +fellow." + +The inspector looked relieved. + +Ronnie paid his bill, took up the 'cello, handed his bag to the +inspector, and marched off gaily to claim his luggage. + +He felt like conquering the world! The fog was lifting. The roar of the +city sounded more natural. He had an excellent report to make to his +publisher, heaps of "copy" to show him, and then--he was going home to +Helen. + +In the taxi he placed the Infant on the seat beside him. + +On the whole he felt glad he had told Helen not to meet him at the +station. It was so much more convenient to have plenty of room in the +taxi for his 'cello. It stood so safely on the seat beside him, in its +canvas bag. + +As they sped westward he enjoyed looking out at the fog and mud and +general wintry-aspect of London. + +He did not feel cold. Aubrey had persuaded him to buy a magnificent +fur-coat at the Hague. He had lived in it ever since, feeling gorgeous +and cosy. Aubrey's ideas of spending money suited him better than +Helen's. + +His taxi glided rapidly along the greasy Embankment. Once it skidded on +the tramlines, and Ronnie laid a steadying hand upon the 'cello. + +The grey old Thames went rolling by--mighty, resistless, perpetually +useful--right through the heart of busy London. + +Ronnie thought of the well-meaning preacher who pointed out to his +congregation, as an instance of the wonderful over-rulings of an +All-wise Providence, the fact that large rivers flowed through great +cities, and small streams through little villages! Ronnie laughed very +much at the recollection of this story, and tried to remember whether he +had ever told it to Helen. + +Arrived at his club he shaved, tubbed, changed his clothes, and, +leaving his 'cello in charge of the hall porter, sallied out with his +manuscript to call upon his publisher. + +In his portmanteau he had found Dr. Dick's bottle of stuff to take on +the journey. Aubrey had persuaded him to pack it away. He now took a +dose; then slipped the bottle into the pocket of his fur coat. + +All went well, during the rest of the morning. His publisher was neither +pre-occupied nor vague. He gave Ronnie a great reception and his full +attention. + +In the best of spirits, and looking the bronzed picture of perfect +health, Ronnie returned to his club, lunched, showed his 'cello to two +or three friends, then caught the three o'clock train to Hollymead. + +The seven months were over. All nightmares seemed to have cleared away. +He was on his way to Helen. In an hour and a half he would be with her! + +He began to wonder, eagerly, what Helen would say to the Infant. + +He felt quite sure that as soon as he got the bow in his hand, and the +'cello between his knees, the Infant would have plenty to say to Helen. + +He had kept his yearning to play, under strong control, so that she +might be there to enjoy with him the wonderful experience of those first +moments. + +As the train slowed up for Hollymead, and the signal lights of the +little wayside station appeared, Ronnie took the last dose of Dick's +physic, and threw the bottle under the seat. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE MIRAGE + + +Helen awaited in her sitting-room the return of the carriage. + +It had been a great effort to let it go to the station without her. In +fact she had ordered it to the front door, and put on her hat and coat +in readiness. + +But at the last minute it had seemed impossible to meet Ronnie on a +railway platform. + +So she sent the brougham off without her, went upstairs, put on a soft +trailing gown specially admired by Ronnie, paused at the nursery to make +sure all was quiet and ready, then came down to her sitting-room, and +tried to listen for a sound other than the beating of her own heart. + +The room looked very home-like and cosy. A fire crackled gaily on the +hearth. The winter curtains were drawn; the orange lampshades cast a +soft golden light around. + +The tea-table stood ready--cups and plates for two. The firelight shone +on the embossed brightness of the urn and teapot. + +Ronnie's favourite low chair was ready for him. + +The room seemed in every detail to whisper, "Home"; and the woman who +waited knew that the home within her heart, yearning to receive and +welcome and hold him close, after his long, long absence from her, was +more tender, more beautiful, more radiant, than outward surroundings +could possibly be made. + +No word save the one telegram had come from Ronnie since her letter to +Leipzig. But she knew he had been desperately busy; and, with the +home-coming so near, letters would have seemed to him almost impossible. + +He could not know how her woman's heart had yearned to have him say at +once: "I am glad, and you did right." + +Her nervousness increased, as the hour for the return of the carriage +drew near. + +She wished she could be sure of having time to run up again to the +nursery with final instructions to Nurse. Supposing baby woke, just as +the carriage arrived, and the first sound Ronnie heard was the hungry +wailing of his little son! + +Passing into the hall, she stood listening at the foot of the stairs. + +All was quiet on the upper landing. + +She returned to the sitting-room, and rang the bell. + +"Simpkins," she said to her butler, "listen for the carriage and be at +the door when it draws up. It may arrive at any moment now. Tell Mr. +West I am in here." + +She sat down, determined to wait calmly; took up the paper and tried to +read an article on foreign policy. It was then she discovered that her +hands were trembling. + +She laughed at herself, and felt better. + +"Oh, what will Ronnie think of me! That I, of all people, should +unexpectedly become nervous!" + +She walked over to the fireplace and saw reflected in the mirror over +the mantel-piece, a very lovely, but a very white, face. She did not +notice the loveliness, but she marked the pallor. It was not reassuring. + +She tried to put another log on to the fire, but failed to grip it +firmly with the little brass tongs, and it fell upon the rug. At that +moment she heard the sharp trot of the horses coming up the last sweep +of the park drive. + +She flung the log on to the fire with her fingers, flew to the door and +set it open; then returned to the table and stood leaning against it, +her hands behind her, gripping the edge, her eyes upon the doorway. +Ronnie would have to walk the whole length of the room to reach her. +Thus she would see him--see the love in his eyes--before her own were +hidden. + +She heard Simpkins cross the hall and open the door. + +The next moment the horses' hoofs pounded up the drive, and she heard +the crunch of the wheels coming to a standstill on the wet gravel. + +A murmur from Simpkins, then Ronnie's gay, joyous voice, as he entered +the house. + +"In the sitting-room? Oh, thanks! Yes, take my coat. No, not this. I +will put it down myself." + +Then his footstep crossing the hall. + +Then--Ronnie filled the doorway; tall, bronzed, radiant as ever! She had +forgotten how beautiful he was. And--yes--the love in his eyes was just +as she had known it would be--eager, glowing. + +She never knew how he reached her; but she let go the table and held out +her arms. In a moment he was in them, and his were flung around her. His +lips sought hers, but her face was hidden on his breast. She felt his +kisses in her hair. + +"Oh, Helen!" he said. "Helen! Why did I ever go!" + +She held him closer still, sobbing a little. + +"Darling, we both thought it right you should go. And--you didn't know." + +"No," he agreed rather vaguely, "of course I didn't know." He thought +she meant that he had not known how long the parting would seem, how +insistent would be the need of each other. "I should not have gone, if I +had known," he added, tenderly. + +"I knew you wouldn't, Ronnie. But--I was all right." + +"Of course you were all right. You know, you said we were a healthy +couple, so I suppose there was no need to worry or to expect anything +else. Was there? All the same I _did_ worry--sometimes." + +She waited for more. + +It did not come. Ronnie was kissing her hair again. + +"Were you glad when you had my letter, Ronnie?" she asked, very low. + +"Which letter, sweet? I was always glad of every letter." + +"Why, the last--the one to Leipzig." + +"Ah, of course! Yes, I was very glad. I read it in your cousin's flat. I +had just been showing him--oh, Helen! That reminds me--darling, I have +something to show you! Such a jolly treasure--such a surprise! I left +it in the hall. Would you like me to fetch it?" + +He loosed his arms and she withdrew from them, looking up into his +glowing face. + +"Yes, Ronnie," she said. "Why, certainly. Do fetch it." + +He rushed off into the hall. He fumbled eagerly with the buckles of the +canvas bag. It had never taken so long, to draw the precious Infant +forth. + +He held it up to the hall lights. He wanted to make sure that it was +really as brown and as beautiful as it had always seemed to him. + +Yes, it was as richly brown as the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw +in a bursting bur! + +He walked back into the sitting-room, carrying it proudly before him. + +Helen had just lighted the spirit-lamp beneath the swinging kettle on +the brass stand. Her face was rather white again. + +"Here it is, Helen," he said. "The most beautiful 'cello you ever saw! +It is one hundred and fifty years old. It was made at Prague. I paid a +hundred and fifty pounds for it." + +Helen looked. + +"That was a good deal to pay for a 'cello," she said, yet conscious as +she spoke that--even as Peter on the Mount--she had made the remark +chiefly because she "wist not what to say." + +"Not a bit!" said Ronnie. "A chap in the orchestra at the Hague, with a +fine 'cello of his own, told me he had never in his life handled such a +beauty. He considered it a wonderful bargain." + +"It _is_ a beauty," said Helen, pouring hot water from the urn into the +teapot, with a hand which trembled. + +Ronnie wheeled a third chair up to the low tea-table, opposite his own +particular seat, leaned his 'cello up against it, sat down, put his +elbows on his knees, and glowed at it with enthusiasm. + +"I knew you would say so, darling. Ever since I bought it, after +choosing your organ at Zimmermann's, I have been thinking of the moment +when I should show it to you; though an even greater moment is coming +for us soon, Helen." + +"Yes, Ronnie." + +"Look how the two silver strings shine in the firelight. I call it the +Infant of Prague." + +"Why the 'Infant'?" + +"Because it is a hundred and fifty years old; and because you have to be +so careful not to bump its head, when you carry it about." + +Helen put her hand to her throat. + +"I think it is a foolish name for a violoncello," she said, coldly. + +"Not at all," explained Ronnie. "It seems to me more appropriate every +day. My 'cello is the nicest infant that ever was; does what it's told, +gives no trouble, and only speaks when it's spoken to!" + +Helen bent over the kettle. It was boiling. She could hear the water +bubbling; the lid began making little tentative leaps. Without lifting +her eyes, she made the tea. + +Ronnie talked on volubly. It was so perfect to be back in his own +chair; to watch Helen making tea; and to have the Infant safely there to +show her. + +Helen did not seem quite so much interested or so enthusiastic as he had +expected. + +Suddenly he remembered Aubrey's joke. + +Helen at that moment was handing him his cup of tea. He took it, +touching her fingers with his own as he did so; a well-remembered little +sign between them, because the first time it had dawned upon Helen that +Ronnie loved her, and wanted her to know it, was on a certain occasion +when he had managed to touch her fingers with his, as she handed him a +cup of tea. + +He did so now, smiling up at her. He was so happy, that things were +becoming a little dream-like again; not a nightmare--that would be +impossible with Helen so near--but an exquisite dream; a dream too +perfectly beautiful to be true. + +"Darling," he said, "I brought the Infant home in a canvas bag. We must +have a proper case made for it. Aubrey said _you_ would probably want +to put it into a bassinet! I suppose he thought your mind would be +likely to run on bassinets. But the Infant always reminds me of the +darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur; so I intend to +have a case of polished rosewood made for it, lined with white velvet." + +Helen laughed, wildly. + +"I have not the smallest desire, Ronald, to put your 'cello into a +bassinet!" she said. + +It dawned upon Ronnie that Helen was not pleased. + +"It was a silly joke of Aubrey's. I told him so. I said I should tell +you _he_ said it, not I. Let's talk of something else." + +He turned his eyes resolutely from the 'cello, and told her of his +manuscript, of the wonderful experiences of his travels, his complete +success in finding the long grass thirteen feet high, and the weird, +wild setting his plot needed. + +Suddenly he became conscious that Helen was not listening. She sat +gazing into the fire; her expression cold and unresponsive. + +Ronnie's heart stood still. Never before had he seen that look on +Helen's face. Were his nightmares following him home? + +For the first time in his life he had a sense of inadequacy. Helen was +not pleased with him. He was not being what she wanted. + +He fell miserably silent. + +Helen continued to gaze into the fire. + +The Infant of Prague calmly reflected the golden lamplight in the +wonderful depths of its polished surface. + +Suddenly an inspiration came to Ronnie. Brightness returned to his face. + +He stood up. + +"Darling," he said, "I told you that an even greater moment was coming +for us." + +She rose also, and faced him, expectant. + +He put out his hand and lifted the Infant. + +"Helen, let's go to the studio, where I first told you I felt sure I +could play a 'cello. We will sit there in the firelight as we did on +that last evening, seven months ago, and you shall hear me make the +Infant sing, for the very first time." + +Then the young motherhood in Helen, arose and took her by the throat. + +"Ronald!" she said. "You are utterly, preposterously, altogether, +selfish! I am ashamed of you!" + +They faced each other across the table. + +Every emotion of which the human soul is capable, passed over Ronnie's +countenance--perplexity, amazement, anger, fury; grief, horror, dismay. + +She saw them come and go, and come again; then, finally, resolve into a +look of indignant misery. + +At last he spoke. + +"If that is your opinion, Helen," he said, "it is a pity I ever returned +from the African jungle. Out there I could have found a woman who would +at least have given me a welcome home." + +Then his face flamed into sudden fury. He seized the cup from which he +had been drinking, and flung up his hand above his head. His upper lip +curled back from his teeth, in an angry snarl. + +Helen gazed at him, petrified with terror. + +His eyes met hers, and he saw the horror in them. Instantly, the anger +died out of his. He lowered his hand, carefully examined the pattern on +the cup, then replaced it gently in the saucer. + +"I beg your pardon," he said. "I ought not to have said that--about +another woman. There is but _one_ woman for me; and, welcome or no +welcome, there is but one home." + +Then he turned from her, slowly, deliberately, taking his 'cello with +him. He left the room, without looking back. She heard him cross the +hall, pause as if to pick up something there; then pass down the +corridor leading to the studio. + +Listening intently, she heard the door of the studio close; not with a +bang--Ronnie had banged doors before now--but with a quiet +irrevocability which seemed to shut her out, completely and altogether. + +Sinking into the chair in which she had awaited his coming with so much +eagerness of anticipation, Helen broke into an uncontrollable paroxysm +of weeping. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +A FRIEND IN DEED + + +Precisely how long she remained alone in her sitting-room, Helen never +knew; but it cannot have been the long hours it seemed, seeing that +Simpkins did not appear to fetch the tea-tray, nor did Nurse send down +any message from the nursery. + +Helen had wept herself into the calm of exhaustion, and was trying to +decide what her next move should be, when the hoot of a motor sounded in +the park. In another moment she heard it panting at the door. Then the +bell pealed. + +With the unfailing instinct of her kind, to hide private grief and show +a brave front to the world, Helen flew to the mirror, smoothed her +tumbled hair, put away her damp handkerchief; and, standing calmly +beside the mantel-piece, one foot on the fender, awaited her unexpected +visitor. + +She heard voices in the hall, then Simpkins opened the door and tried to +make an announcement, but some unseen force from behind whirled him +away, and a broad-shouldered young man in an ulster, travel-stained and +dishevelled, appeared in his stead, shut the door upon Simpkins, and +strode into the lamplight, his cloth cap still on the back of his head, +his keen dark eyes searching Helen's face eagerly. + +His cap came off before he spoke to her; but, with his thick, +short-cropped hair standing on end, a bare head only added to the +wildness of his appearance. + +He stopped when he reached the tea-table. + +"Where's Ronnie?" he said, and he spoke as if he had been running for +many miles. + +"My husband is in the studio," replied Helen, with gentle dignity. + +"What's he doing?" + +"I believe he is playing his 'cello." + +"Oh, lor! That wretched Infant! Is he all right?" + +"So far as I know." + +"What time did he get here?" + +"At half-past four." + +The dishevelled young man glanced at the clock. + +"Oh, lor!" he said again. "To think I've travelled night and day and +raced down from town in a motor to get here first, and he beat me by an +hour and a half! However, if he's all right, no harm's done." + +He dropped into Ronnie's chair, and rumpled his hair still further with +his hands. + +"I must try to explain," he said. + +Then he lifted a rather white, very grubby face to Helen's. His lips +twitched. + +"I'm dry," he said; and dropped his face into his hands. + +Helen rang the bell. + +"Bring whisky and soda at once," she ordered, the instant Simpkins +appeared in the doorway. + +Then she crossed over, and laid her hand lightly on her visitor's broad +shoulder. + +"Don't try to explain," she said kindly, "until you have had something. +I am sure I know who you are. You appear in all sorts of cricket and +football groups in Ronnie's dressing-room. You are Ronnie's special +chum, Dick Cameron." + +Dick did not lift his head. As a matter of fact, at that moment he could +not. But, though his throat contracted, so that speech became +impossible, in his heart he was saying: "What a woman! Lor, what a +woman! Ninety-nine out of a hundred would have offered me tea--and tea +that had stood an hour; and the hundredth would have sent for a +policeman! But she jumps instantly to whisky and soda; and then walks +across and makes me feel at home. Eh, well! We shall save old Ronnie +between us." + +She administered the whisky and soda when it appeared; sitting gently +beside him, in exceeding friendliness. + +The rugged honesty of the youth appealed to her. His very griminess +seemed but an earnest of his steadfast purpose, and suited her present +mood of utter disillusion with the artistic and the beautiful. + +Dick's look of keen alertness, his sense of forceful vigour, soon +returned to him. + +He stood up, surveyed himself in the glass, then turned with a rueful +smile to Helen. + +"It was both kind and brave of you, Mrs. West," he said, "not to send +for a policeman." + +Helen laughed. "I think I know an honest man when I see him, Dr. Dick. +You must let me use the name by which I have always heard of you. Now, +can you explain more fully?" + +"Certainly," said Dick, getting out of his ulster, and sitting down. +"But I must begin by asking a few more questions. Did you get your +cousin's letter yesterday morning? It was absolutely essential you +should receive it before Ronnie reached home. I hoped you would act upon +it at once." + +Helen gazed at him, aghast. + +"I did receive my cousin's letter," she said. + +"Was it quite explicit, Mrs. West?" + +"It was absolutely explicit." + +"Ah! Then on that point I admit I have wronged him. But you must excuse +me if I say that I am inclined to consider your cousin a liar and a +scoundrel." + +Helen's face was white and stern. "I am afraid I have long known him to +be both, Dr. Dick." + +"Then you will not wonder that when I found he was not keeping his word +to me, and bringing Ronnie home, I dashed off in pursuit." + +"Was there ever any question of his returning with my husband?" + +It was Dick's turn to look perplexed. + +"Of course there was. In fact, he gave me his word in the matter. I +mistrusted him, however, and the more I thought it over, the more uneasy +I grew. Yesterday morning, the day he was to have crossed with Ronnie, I +called at his flat and found he was expected back there to-day. I should +dearly have liked to wait and wring his neck on arrival, but naturally +Ronnie's welfare came first. I could not catch the night boat at the +Hague, but I dashed off via Brussels, crossed from Boulogne this +morning, reached London forty minutes too late for the 3 o'clock train +to Hollymead. There was no other until five, and that a slow one. So I +taxied off to a man I know in town who owns several cars, borrowed his +fastest, and raced down here, forty miles an hour. Even then I got here +too late. However, no harm has been done. But you will understand that +prompt action was necessary. What on earth was your cousin's little +game?" + +"It is quite inexplicable to me," said Helen, slowly, "that you should +have any knowledge of my cousin's letter. Also, you have obviously been +prompt, but I have not the faintest idea why prompt action was +necessary." + +"Didn't your cousin give you my message?" + +"Your name was not mentioned in his letter." + +"Did he tell you of Ronnie's critical condition?" + +"He said Ronnie told him he had never felt fitter in his life, and added +that he looked it." + +Dick leapt to his feet, walked over to the window, and muffled a few +remarks about Aubrey Treherne, in the curtains. Nevertheless Helen heard +them. + +"Is--Ronnie--ill?" she asked, with trembling lips. + +Dick came back. + +"Ronnie is desperately ill, Mrs. West. But, now he is safely at home, +within easy reach of the best advice, we will soon have him all right +again. Don't you worry." + +But "worry" scarcely expressed Helen's face of agonised dismay. + +"Tell me--all," she said. + +Dick sat down and told her quite clearly and simply the text of his +message to her through Aubrey, explaining and amplifying it with full +medical details. + +"Any violent emotion, either of joy, grief or anger, would probably +have disastrous results. He apparently came to blows with your cousin +during the evening he spent at Leipzig. Ronnie gave him a lovely thing +in the way of lips. One recalls it now with exceeding satisfaction. When +I saw your cousin afterwards he appeared to have condoned it. But it may +account for his subsequent behaviour. Fortunately this sort of +thing--" Dick glanced about him appreciatively--"looks peaceful enough." + +Helen sat in stricken silence. + +"It augurs well that he was able to stand the pleasure of his +home-coming," continued Dr. Dick. "He must be extraordinarily better, if +you noticed nothing unusual. Possibly he slept during the +night-crossing. Also, I gave him some stuff to take on the way back, +intended to clear his brain and calm him generally. Did he seem to you +quite normal?" + +Then Helen rose and stood before him with clasped hands. + +"He seemed to me quite normal," she said, "because I had no idea of +anything else. But now that I know the truth, of course I realise at +once that he was not so. And, oh, Dr. Dick, I had a terrible scene with +Ronnie!" + +Dick stood up. + +"Tell me," he said. + +"I told Ronnie that he was utterly, preposterously, and altogether +selfish, and that I was ashamed of him." + +"Whew! You certainly did not mince matters," said Dr. Dick. "What had +poor old Ronnie done?" + +"He had talked, from the moment of his return, of very little save the +'cello he has brought home. He had suggested that it might amuse me to +put it into a bassinet. Then when at last tea was over, he proposed, as +the most delightful proceeding possible, that we should adjourn to the +studio, and that I should sit and listen while he made a first attempt +to play his 'cello--which, by the way, he calls, the 'Infant of Prague,' +explaining to me that it is the nicest infant that ever was." + +"Oh, that confounded Infant!" exclaimed Dr. Dick. "I have hated it from +the first! But really, Mrs. West "--he looked puzzled--"all this was no +doubt enthusiasm misplaced. But then Ronnie always is a perfect infant +himself, where new toys are concerned. You can hardly realise how much +he has looked forward to showing you that 'cello. His behaviour also +proved a decided tendency to self-absorption; but there the artistic +temperament comes in, which always creates a world of its own in which +it dwells content, often at the expense of duties and obligations +connected with outer surroundings. We all know that this is Ronnie's +principal failing. But--excuse me for saying so--it hardly deserved +quite so severe an indictment from you." + +Helen wrung her hands. + +Suddenly Dr. Dick took them both, firmly in his. + +"Why don't you tell me the truth?" he said. + +Then Helen told him. + +She never could remember afterwards exactly how she told him, and no +one but Helen ever knew what Dr. Dick said and did. But, months +later--when in her presence aspersions were being cast on Dick for his +indomitable ambition, his ruthless annihilation of all who stood in his +way, his utter lack of religious principle and orthodox belief--Helen, +her sweet face shadowed by momentary sadness, her eyes full of pathetic +remembrance, spoke up for Ronnie's chum. "He may be a bad old thing in +many ways," she said; "I admit that the language he uses is calculated +to make his great-aunt Louisa, of sacred memory, turn in her grave! +But--he is a tower of strength in one's hour of need." + + * * * * * + +"No," said Dick, after a while, gazing straight before him into the +fire, his chin in his hands; "I can't believe Ronnie knew it. He was +just in the condition to become frantically excited by such news. He +would have been desperately anxious about you; wild that you should +have gone through it alone, and altogether absorbed in the idea of +coming home and seeing his child. The Infant of Prague would have had +its shining nose put completely out of joint. I don't believe Ronnie +ever had your letter. Write to the _Poste Restante_ at Leipzig, and you +will receive it back." + +"Impossible," said Helen. "He opened and read it that evening in +Aubrey's flat. He told Aubrey the news, and Aubrey mentioned it in his +letter to me." + +Dick looked grave. + +"Well then," he said, "old Ronnie is in an even worse case than I +feared. I think we should go at once and look him up. I told my friend's +chauffeur to wait; so, if further advice is needed to-night, we can send +the car straight back to town with a message. Where is Ronnie?" + +"He took his 'cello, and went off to the studio. I heard him shut the +door." + +"Show me the way," said Dr. Dick. + +With his hand on the handle of the sitting-room door, he paused. + +"I suppose you--er--feel quite able to forgive poor old Ronnie, now?" he +asked. + +The yearning anguish in Helen's eyes made answer enough. + +They crossed the hall together; but--as they passed down the corridor +leading to the studio--they stopped simultaneously, and their eyes +sought one another in silent surprise and uncertainty. + +The deep full tones of a 'cello, reached them where they stood; tones so +rich, so plaintively sweet, so full of passion and melody, that, to the +anxious listeners in the dimly lighted corridor, they gave the sense of +something weird, something altogether uncanny in its power, unearthly in +its beauty. + +They each spoke at the same moment. + +"It cannot be Ronnie," they said. + +"It must be Ronnie," amended Helen. "There is no one else in the house." + +"_You_ go in," whispered Dick. "I will wait here. Call, if you want me. +Don't startle him. Go in very softly. Be very--er--_you_ know?" + +Helen moved forward alone. + +She laid her hand upon the handle of the studio door. + +She wished the weird music within would cease for one moment, that she +might feel more able to enter. + +Cold shivers ran down her spine. + +Try as she would, she could not connect that music with Ronnie. + +Somebody else was also in the studio, of that she felt quite certain. + +She nearly went back to Dick. + +Then--rating herself for cowardice--she turned the handle of the door +and passed in. + +Dick saw her disappear. + +Almost at that moment the 'cello-playing ceased; there was a crash, a +cry from Helen, a silence, and then--a wild shriek from Helen, a sound +holding so much of fear and of horror, that Dick shouted in reply as he +dashed forward. + +He found himself in a low room, oak-panelled, lighted only by the +uncertain flame a log-fire. The door by which Dick had centered was to +the left of the fireplace. On the wall at the farther end of the room, +opposite both door and fireplace, hung an immense mirror in a massive +gilt frame. + +On the floor in the centre of the room lay Ronnie, unconscious, on his +back. The chair upon which he had been sitting and which had gone over +backwards with him, lay broken beneath him. His 'cello rested on his +chest. He gripped it there, with both his hands. They fell away from it, +as Dick looked at him. + +Ronnie's wife knelt on the floor beside him, but she was not looking at +Ronnie. She was staring, with white face and starting eyes, into the +mirror. Her left arm, stretched out before her, was rigid with horror, +from the shoulder to the tip of the pointing finger. + +"Look, Dick!" she shrieked. "Oh, heavens! Look!" + +Dick flashed up the electric light; then looked into the mirror. + +He saw himself loom large, dishevelled, grimy, travel-stained. Then he +saw Ronnie and the Infant in a dark heap on the floor, and the white +face of Ronnie's wife, kneeling beside him with outstretched arm and +eyes upon the mirror. On the other side of Ronnie, in the very centre of +the scene, stood a queer old chair of Italian workmanship, the heads of +lions completing its curved arms, on its carved back the _fleur-de-lis_ +of Florence, its seat of padded leather, embossed in crimson and gold. + +This was all Dick saw, excepting the leaping flames of the fire beyond. + +And even as he looked, Helen's arm fell to her side; he saw her turn, +lift the Infant off Ronnie's breast; and, bending over him, draw his +head on to her lap. + +Dick turned from the mirror. The scene in the room was identical with +the reflection, in all points save one. The Florentine chair was under +Ronnie. It had fallen with him. Its back was broken. Not until he had +lifted his friend from the floor did Dr. Dick see the panelled +_fleur-de-lis_ of Florence, nor the crimson and gold of the embossed +leather seat. + +As he and Helen together loosed Ronnie's collar and tie, she whispered: +"Did--_you_--see?" + +"This is no time for staring into mirrors," said Dr. Dick, crossly. "I +saw that _I_ need a good wash; and _you_, some sal-volatile! But we +shall have plenty to do for Ronnie before we can find leisure to think +of ourselves. Send a couple of men here; sturdy fellows whom you can +trust. Order that car to the door; then bring me a pencil, a sheet of +note-paper and an envelope. There is just one man in the world who can +help us now, and we must have him here with as little delay as +possible." + +When Helen had left the room, Dick glanced furtively over his shoulder +into the mirror. + +The Italian chair, in the reflection, now lay broken on the floor! + +"Hum!" said Dr. Dick. "Not bad, that--for an Infant! Precocious, I call +it. We must have that 'cello re-christened the '_Demon_ of Prague'!" + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +RONNIE FACES THE UPAS + + +Ronnie had walked from his wife's sitting-room, along the corridor and +into the studio, in a state of stunned stupefaction. + +He carried his 'cello in one hand, its case and bow, which he had picked +up in the hall, in the other; but he had for the moment completely +forgotten the Infant. + +He leaned it against a chair, laid down the case, closed the studio +door; then walked to the fireplace. + +He stood looking at the great crackling logs, and into the glowing heart +of the fire beneath them. + +"Utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish," he repeated slowly. +"That is what my wife considers me; that is as I appear to Helen. +Utterly--preposterously--altogether--selfish. She is so lovely--she is +so perfect! I--I have longed for her so! But _I_ am utterly, +preposterously, altogether, selfish!" + +He put his arms upon the mantel-piece and dropped his head upon them. He +felt a queer contraction in his throat, a stinging beneath his eyelids, +such as he had not experienced since the days of childish mortifications +and sorrows. But the instinctive manliness of him, held back the actual +tears. He was debarred, even in solitude, from that form of relief. + +Presently he lifted his head, took out his pocket-book, and wrote down +the words, spelling each with a capital letter. + +He looked long at them; then suddenly exclaimed: "U, P, A, S! Why, it is +the Upas tree; the deadly, mysterious, poisonous Upas tree! I found it +in the jungle. I felt ill the night I camped beneath it. I have never +felt quite well since. The nightmares began on that night; and the +nightmares have followed me home. This is the worst of all. Helen calls +me the Upas tree--the poisoner of her content. Utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish!" + +He turned on the electric lights, and walked up and down the room, with +desperate, restless tread. + +"Poisoning all it touches," he said. "Blasting the life of all who pass +beneath its deadly foliage--U,P,A,S--Upas." + +He paused before the great mirror, gazing at his own reflection. + +He put his face quite close to the glass, staring into his burning eyes. + +Then he struck at the reflection with his clenched fist. "Upas tree!" he +snarled. "Take that, and be damned!" + +He had hurt his knuckles. He walked back to the fire, rubbing them +carefully with his left hand. + +"Poor old chap," he said. "It _is_ hard lines! You meant well; but all +the while you were a Upas tree. '_I, Helen, take thee, Upas, to be my +wedded husband_.' Poor lovely Helen! What a bargain!" + +He sat down in a deep basket-chair, lighted a cigarette, pushed another +chair into position, exactly in front of him, with his foot; then +filling it, one by one, with friends of his own and Helen's, held +conversation with them. + +"Quite right, my dear Mrs. Dalmain! You need not now confine yourself to +_looking_ your disapproval; you can _say_ exactly what you think. You +see, Helen herself has told me the worst truth of all. I am a Upas tree. +She sums me up thus: U, P, A, S! You can hardly beat that, Mrs. Dalmain. +In fact, you look distressed. I can see that your kind heart is sorry +for me. Helen said you were a wonderful person to turn to in trouble. +There is no one in the world quite like you. Well, now's your chance to +prove it; for surely nobody ever came to you in more desperate trouble. +If you wish to be really kind and comforting, talk to me of my wife. Say +how sweet and lovely she is. Say that her arms are tender, her eyes +gentle and kind. I am the thirsty traveller in the desert, who sights +pure water, hastens eagerly forward, and finds--a mirage! But a deadly +stream flows from the roots of the Upas--Hullo! Here comes Aubrey +Treherne. Look out, Mrs. Dalmain! He owes you a grudge. Hey, presto! +Vanish from the chair, or Helen's cousin will lean over, with a bleeding +face, threatening to kill you with both hands!... + +"Good-evening, Cousin Aubrey. How is your lip to-night? You mustn't kiss +Helen again, until that lip is well. Helen will be ashamed of you for +not being able to put fuel into a stove without knocking your lip. Fie, +man! Poor happy Ronnie, going home to show his wife his 'cello, believed +you. But the Upas tree knows! You can't deceive the Upas tree, you liar! +You may as well tell Helen that you wounded your lip on a branch of her +Upas tree.... + +"Hullo, Dick! Come in, and welcome! Sit down, old boy. I want to ask you +something. Hist! Listen! That motor, which hooted in the park a moment +ago, contained a policeman--so it is essential we should know whether +there is any by-law in Leipzig against men, as trees, walking. Because +you weren't walking about with a man, you know, but with a Upas tree. +When in doubt, ask--my wife! It would have made a sensational paragraph +in the papers: 'Arrest of a Upas tree, in the streets of Leipzig!' Worse +than 'Arrest of the Infant of Prague.' ... Why! Where is the Infant?" + +He turned and saw his 'cello, where he had placed it, leaning against a +chair. + +He rose, took it up, and walked over to the piano. + +"A, D, G, C. 'Allowable delights grow commonplace!' What did the fiend +mean? C, G, D, A. 'Courage gains desired aims.' That's better! We aimed +pretty straight at his lying mouth." + +He opened the piano, struck the notes, and tuned the 'cello exactly as +he had seen Aubrey do. + +At the first sound of the strings his mood changed. All bitterness +passed out of his face. A look of youth and hope dawned in it. + +He carried the 'cello back to the circle of chairs. He placed it where +it had stood before; then lay back in his own seat smiling dreamily at +the empty chair opposite. + +"Helen," he said, "darling, I don't really play the piano, I only strum. +But there is one instrument, above all others, which I have always +longed to play. I have it now. I own the 'cello I have always loved and +longed for; the 'cello on which I used to play a hundred years ago. Now +I am going to play to you; and you will forget everything in this world, +my wife, excepting that I love you." + +He drew the Infant between his knees; then realised at once that his +chair was too low. + +Rising, he went over to a corner where, against the wall, stood a +beautiful old chair which he and Helen had brought back, the winter +before, from Italy. Its arms and feet of walnut wood, were carved into +lions' heads and paws. Its back bore, in a medallion, the Florentine +_fleur-de-lis_. The high padded seat was of embossed gold, on crimson +leather. + +Ronnie placed this queer old chair in the centre of the room, facing the +great mirror. + +Then he clicked off the electric lights, stirred the fire, and threw on +a couple of fresh logs. + +The flames shot up, illumining the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +"AS IN A MIRROR" + + +Ronnie returned to the Florentine chair, took the 'cello between his +knees, placed his thumb behind its polished neck and his fingers on the +ebony finger-board. He let them glide lightly up and down the strings, +making no sound. Then he raised the bow in his right hand, and slowly, +softly, sounded the four open notes. + +Each tone was deep and true; there was no rasp--no uneven scraping of +the bow. + +The log-fire burned up brightly. + +He waited. A great expectation filled him. + +He was remembering something he had long forgotten. + +Looking straight before him at his own reflection in the mirror, he +smiled to see how correctly he held the 'cello. The Infant seemed at +home between his knees. + +The sight of himself and the Infant thus waiting together, gave him +peculiar pleasure. + +The fire burned low. + +His reflected figure dimmed and faded. A misty shadow hid it from his +eyes. He could just see the shining of the silver strings, and the white +line of his linen cuff. + +Then suddenly, he forgot all else save that which he had been trying to +remember. + +He felt a strong tremor in his left wrist. He was gripping the neck of +the 'cello. The strings were biting deep into the flesh of his +finger-tips. + +He raised the bow and swept it across the strings. + +Low throbbing music filled the studio, and a great delight flooded +Ronnie's soul. + +He dared not give conscious thought to that which he was doing; he could +only go on doing it. + +He knew that he--he himself--was at last playing his own 'cello. Yet it +seemed to him that he was merely listening, while another played. + +Two logs fell together in the fire behind him. + +Bright flames shot up, illumining the room. + +Ronnie raised his eyes and looked into the mirror. + +He saw therein reflected, the 'cello and the Italian chair; but the +figure of a man sat playing, and that man was not himself; that figure +was not his own. + +A grave, white face, set off by straight black hair, a heavy lock of +which fell over the low forehead; long white fingers gliding up and down +the strings, lace ruffles falling from the wrists. The knees, gripping +the 'cello, were clad in black satin breeches, black silk stockings were +on the shapely legs; while on the feet, planted firmly upon the floor, +gleamed diamond shoe-buckles. + +Ronnie gazed at this reflection. + +Each movement of the gliding bow, corresponded to the rhythm of the +music now throbbing through the studio. + +Ronnie played on, gazing into the mirror. The man in the mirror did not +lift his eyes, nor look at Ronnie. Either they were bent upon the +'cello, or he played with them fast closed. + +Ronnie dared not look down at his own hands. He could feel his fingers +moving up and down the strings, as moved the fingers in the mirror. He +feared he should see lace ruffles falling from his wrists, if he looked +at his own hands. + +The fire burned low again. + +Still Ronnie played on, staring before him as he played. The music +gained in volume and in beauty. + +The fire burned lower. The room was nearly dark. The reflection was +almost hidden. + +Ronnie, straining his eyes, could see only the white line of the low +square forehead. + +He wished the eyes would lift and look at him, piercing the darkness of +the darkening room. + +Another log fell. Again flames darted upwards. Each detail in the +mirror was clear once more. + +The playing grew more rapid. Ronnie felt his fingers flying, yet +pressing deeply as they flew. + +The right foot of the figure, placed further back than the left, was +slightly raised. The heel was off the floor. + +Ronnie's right heel was also lifted. + +Then, looking past the figure in the chair, he marked behind him, where +in the reflection of the studio should have been the door, heavy black +curtains hanging in sombre folds. And, even as Ronnie noticed these, +they parted; and the lovely face of a woman looked in. + +As Ronnie saw that face he remembered many things--things of exquisite +joy, things of poignant sorrow; things inexpressible except in music, +unutterable except in tone. + +The 'cello sobbed, and wailed, and sang itself slowly into a minor +theme; yet the passion of the minor was more subtle, sweeter far, than +the triumph of the major. + +The woman glided in. + +Ronnie watched her. She came and softly stood behind the Florentine +chair. + +Apparently she made no sound. The 'cellist did not raise his eyes. He +appeared totally unconscious of her presence. + +The woman bent her beautiful head, observing him closely. Following her +eyes, Ronnie saw a ruffle of old lace falling from the 'cellist's +throat, a broad crimson ribbon crossing his breast, on which glittered a +diamond star. + +The woman waited. + +Ronnie watched. + +The 'cellist played on. + +The fire burned low. + +Then another log fell. Again flames darted upward. + +Ronnie saw the woman lay her left hand noiselessly upon the back of the +Italian chair, then slip her right behind her and take something bright, +off a table covered with bright things. And, as he watched, she flung +her right hand high above her head, and in it, point downwards, gleamed +the sharp blade of a dagger. + +Her eyes met Ronnie's in the mirror. A gleam of malicious triumph shot +from them. + +He knew she was about to kill the unconscious 'cellist. + +His one thought was to warn and to save him. He knew no sound he made +could be heard in a past century; but whatever he himself now did, he +instinctively felt the 'cellist in the mirror would also do. + +With a desperate effort he stopped the movement of the bow. + +He had just time to see the 'cellist in the mirror also pause. + +Then Ronnie dropped his bow, gripped the 'cello with both hands, and, as +the swift blow fell, drew the body of the 'cello up over his breast. + +Then the back of his chair seemed to give way; his feet left the floor, +and he fell over backwards--down--down--down--into a never ending abyss +of throbbing, palpitating, rolling blackness. + +Part IV + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +"THE FOG LIFTS" + + +When Ronnie came to himself, emerging quite suddenly from a long, +confused dream, which had held many voices, many happenings over which +he had exercised no control and which were too indefinite to be +remembered, he found himself sitting on a seat, on the esplanade at +Hazelbeach. + +A crisp, wintry feeling was in the air; but the sun was brilliant, and +the high ground behind, sheltered the sea-front from wind. + +He was muffled in his fur coat, and felt quite warm. + +The first thing he consciously noticed was the sparkling of the ripple +on the calm water. + +There is something particularly reviving and inspiriting about sunshine +on the gaily moving sea. The effect is produced with so little apparent +effort. The sun just shines; the water just moves; and lo, hosts of +sparkling diamonds! + +Ronnie watched it in silence for some time, before giving any sign that +he actually saw it. + +He was anxious carefully to take his bearings, without appearing to do +so. + +Helen sat beside him on the seat. She kept up a flow of conversation, in +the kind, cheerful, intelligent voice in which you talk to a child who +has to be kept happy and amused. + +Ronnie let her go on talking in that voice, while he took his bearings. + +He glanced at her, furtively, once; then turned his eyes seaward again. + +Helen, also, was wearing a fur coat, and a pretty grey fur toque on her +soft hair. Her face seemed thinner than it used to be; but the sea +breeze and sunshine had brought a bright colour to her cheeks. + +Ronnie's eyes left the ripples, and wandered cautiously up and down the +shore. + +The beach was deserted. No moving figures dotted the esplanade. Helen +and he would have been alone, had it not been for one tiresome man who +sat reading on the next seat to theirs. He looked like a superior valet +or upper footman, in a bowler and a black morning coat. He was just out +of earshot; but his presence prevented Ronnie from feeling himself alone +with Helen, and increased the careful caution with which he took his +bearings. + +At last he felt the moment had arrived to stop Helen's well-meant +attempts at amusing him. + +The man on the other seat was a dozen yards off to the right. Helen sat +quite close to him on the left. He turned his back on the other seat and +looked earnestly into his wife's face. + +"Helen," he said, quietly, "how did we get here?" + +"We motored, darling. It isn't very far across country, though to get +here by train we should have to go up to town and down again." + +"When did we come?" + +"Yesterday. Ronnie, do look at those funny little wooden houses just +beyond us on the esplanade. They take the place of bathing-machines, or +bathing-tents, in summer. They can be hired just for the morning, or you +can engage one for the whole time of your visit, and furnish it +comfortably. Don't you think it is quite a good idea? And people give +them such grand names. I saw one called 'Woodstock,' and another +'Highcombe House.' If we took one, we should have to call it 'The +Grange.'" + +"Helen, you have told me all about those little huts twice already, +during the last half-hour. Only, last time you had seen one called +'Runnymead,' and another called 'The Limes.' Presently, if you like, we +will walk along and read all the names. It is just the kind of thing +which would appeal to our joint sense of humour. But first you must +answer a few more questions. Helen--where is my 'cello?" + +"At home, Ronnie." + +"Was it broken?" + +Helen looked distressed. "No, darling, it was not injured at all. It is +safely put away. Look how the sunlight sparkles on those distant +ripples!" + +"I have finished with the ripples thank you, darling. Helen, I know I've +been desperately ill. But I'm all right now, and I want you to tell me +all about it." + +He saw her glance past him, at the man who sat reading on the next seat. + +"Don't worry about him," he said. "He can't overhear. If you think he +can, let's move on." + +"No, no!" said Helen, quickly. "We are so cosy here in the sunshine. +Ronnie, do you see those--" + +"No, dear," he said, "I don't! At this moment I see nothing but you. And +I decline to have my attention drawn any more to the exciting things to +be seen on the shore at Hazelbeach in winter.... Oh, yes, I knew it was +Hazelbeach! Five years ago I spent a jolly week here with some friends. +We hired a little wooden hut and called it 'Buckingham Palace,' I +remember." + +He slipped his hand into her muff, capturing both hers. + +Her look of anxiety and alarm went to his heart. He had never seen Helen +frightened before; and he knew with unerring instinct that she was +afraid--_of him_. + +It was hard; for he was desperately tired in mind and body. To subside +into passive acquiescence and watch the ripples again, would be the +easier way. But he must make a fight for his newly-recovered sanity and +reason, and to convince Helen in the matter seemed the first thing to be +accomplished. + +Her hands were shaking in her muff. He held them firmly with his. + +"Darling," he said, "I know I have been very bad. I was ill in Leipzig, +though I didn't know it. But Dick Cameron told me I ought not to have +been going about there. I suppose since then I have been quite off my +head. But, oh, Helen, can't you see--- can't you _see_, darling--that I +am all right again now? I can remember practically nothing which has +happened since I played my 'cello in front of the mirror in the studio. +But, up to that moment, I remember everything quite clearly; my travels, +my manuscript, the time when I began to get feverish and lost my +sleep--I can see now the very spot where I camped when I had my first +nightmare. Then working night and day on board ship, then Leipzig, the +Hague, London in a fog; then home--to you. Helen, it has all come back. +Can't you realise that the clouds have lifted; can't you believe, my own +dear girl, that my mind is clear again? Look at the sunshine on the sea, +dispelling the morning mists. _In hoc signo vinces!_ You said the path +of clear shining was the way to victory. Well, I have conquered whatever +it was which poisoned my brain for a while. I am absolutely myself again +now. Can't you believe it, Helen?" + +The tears were running down her cheeks. She looked full into his earnest +eyes. + +"Oh, Ronnie, you do look different! You do look your own dear self. Oh, +Ronnie, my own! But Dick is coming back to-morrow. He went up to town +only this morning. He will tell us what to do. Till then, don't you +think we had better just talk about the sea, and the little houses, +and--and how happy we are?" + +"No, Helen," he said firmly. "We are not happy yet. I must know more. +How long is it since that evening in the studio?" + +"About a month, darling. This is Christmas week. To-morrow will be +Christmas Eve." + +Ronnie considered this in silence. + +Then: "Let's walk up and down," he said. "It ought to be too cold to sit +about in Christmas week." + +She rose and they walked along the sea-front together. + +Ronnie glanced behind them. The man on the seat had risen also and was +following at a little distance. + +"What cheek of that chap," he said. "He seems determined to overhear +our conversation. Shall I tell him to be off?" + +"No, dear; please don't," she answered hurriedly. "He cannot possibly +overhear us." + +Presently she dropped her muff and stooped to pick it up. But Ronnie +turned also, and saw her make a sign to the man following them, who at +once sat down on the nearest seat. + +Then poor Ronnie knew. + +"I suppose he is a keeper," he said. + +"Oh, no, darling! He is only a trained attendant; just a sort of valet +for you. Such a nice man and so attentive. He brushes your clothes." + +"I see," said Ronnie. "Valets are quite useful people. But they do not +as a rule sit reading in the middle of the morning, on the next seat to +their master and mistress! Do they? However, if Dick is coming +to-morrow, we can discuss the valet question with him. Take my arm, +Helen. I feel a bit shaky when I walk. Now tell me--why did we come +here?" + +"They thought the change of scene, the perfect quiet, and the bracing +air might do wonders for you, Ronnie." + +"Who were 'they'?" + +"Dr. Dick and--a friend of his." + +"I see. Well, I won't bully you into telling me things you are afraid I +ought not to know. But I will tell you just how much I _do_ know. It is +all a queer sort of black dream. I absolutely can't remember _seeing_ +anything, until I found myself watching the sparkle of the ripples on +the sea. But I vaguely remember _hearing_ things. There was always a +kind voice. Of course that was yours, Helen. Also there was a kind hand. +I used to try not to do anything which could hurt the kind hand. Then, +there were several strange voices; they came and went. Then there was +Mrs. Dalmain. When her voice was there I always tried to do at once what +the strange voices and the kind voice wished; because I was horribly +afraid of being left alone with Mrs. Dalmain! Then I sometimes thought I +heard a baby cry. Wasn't that queer?" + +Helen did not answer. A deep flush overspread her face, mounting from +her chin to the roots of her hair. Was Ronnie going to remember? + +"The kind voice used to say: 'Take him away, Nurse'; but I am vague +about this; because I was miles down a deep well when it happened, and +the baby was up at the top. I expect I got the idea from having called +my 'cello the Infant of Prague. Did you hear me playing, on that +evening, Helen?" + +"Yes, I heard." + +"Was it beautiful?" + +"Very beautiful, Ronnie." + +"I am longing to get back to play my 'cello again." + +"By-and-by, dear." + +"Did I talk much of the 'cello when I was ill?" + +"A good deal. But you talked chiefly of your travels and adventures; +such weird things, that the doctors often thought they were a part of +your delirium. But I found them all clearly explained in your +manuscript. I hope you won't mind, Ronnie. They asked me to glance +through it, in order to see whether anything to be found there threw +light on your illness. But of course you know, dearest, I could not do +that. I never 'glanced through' any manuscript of yours yet. Either I do +not touch them at all, or I read them carefully every word. I read this +carefully." + +"Is it all right?" + +"Ronnie, it is magnificent! Quite the best thing you have done yet. Such +brilliant descriptive writing. Even in the midst of my terrible anxiety, +I used to be carried right away from all my surroundings. Of course I do +not yet know the end; but when you are able to work again we can talk it +all over, and you will tell me." + +His sad face brightened. A look of real gladness came into it; the first +she had seen for so long. + +"I am glad it is all right," he said, simply. "I thought it was. I am +glad I am not altogether a rotter." + +After that they walked on in silence. His last remark had been so +unexpected in its bitterness, that Helen could find no words in which to +answer it. + +She glanced at her watch. It was almost time for luncheon. She pointed +out their hotel. + +"Come, darling; we can talk more easily indoors. We have a charming +private sitting-room, overlooking the sea." + +He turned at once; but as they entered the hotel gardens he said +suddenly: "Did I talk of a Upas tree, while I was off my head?" + +"Yes, Ronnie, constantly. In fact you thought you _were_ a Upas tree!" + +"I _knew_ I was a Upas tree," said Ronnie. + +"Why?" + +"Because my wife told me so, the evening I came home. How do you spell +'Upas'?" + +"U, P, A, S. Oh, Ronnie, what do you mean?" + +He paused, and shading his eyes, looked away over the sunny sea to where +the vessels, from the Hook of Holland, come into port. + +"Just that," he said. "Exactly that. Utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish. That is the Upas tree." + +"Oh, Ronnie," she cried, "if you knew--" + +But Ronnie had seen a bowler hat behind the hedge. He called its wearer +forward. + +"Mrs. West tells me you are my valet," he said. "Kindly show me to my +room." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +"HE _MUST_ REMEMBER" + +Dick arrived very early the next morning, having to be off again by the +twelve o'clock train, in order to reach that evening the place where he +was due to spend Christmas. + +A telegram from Helen had prepared him for a change in Ronnie, but +hardly for the complete restoration of mental balance which he saw in +his friend, as they hailed one another at the railway station. + +Ronnie had breakfasted early, in order to meet Dick's train. He had said +nothing of his plan to Helen, merely arranging his breakfast-hour +overnight with the "valet." + +He walked to the station alone; but, arrived there, found the "valet" on +the platform. + +"Thought I might be wanted, sir, to carry the doctor's bag," he +explained, touching his hat. But, just as the train rounded the bend, he +remarked: "Better stand back a little, sir," and took Ronnie firmly by +the arm. + +Ronnie could have knocked him down; but realised that this would be the +surest way to find himself more than ever hedged in by precautions. So +he stood back, in wrathful silence, and, as Dick's gay face appeared at +the window of a third-class smoker, the "valet" loosed his hold and +disappeared. It may here be recorded that this was the last time Ronnie +saw him. Apparently he found it necessary to carry Dr. Dick's bag all +the way back to town. + +"Hullo, old chap!" cried Dick. + +"Hullo, Dick!" said Ronnie. "This is better than Leipzig, old man. I'm +all right. I must give you a new thermometer!" + +"You shall," said Dick. "After Christmas we'll have a spree together in +town and choose it. No need to tell me you 're all right, Ronnie. It's +writ large on you, my boy. He who runs may read!" + +"Well, I wish you'd write it large on other people," said Ronnie, as +they walked out of the station. + +"What do you mean?" + +"Dick, I'm having a devil of a time! There's a smug chap in a bowler hat +who is supposed to be my valet. When I went to bed last night, I found I +had a decent room enough, opening out of the sitting-room. I was +obviously expected to turn in there, asking no questions; so I turned +in. But the valet person slept in a room communicating with mine. The +latch and the lock of the door between, had been tampered with. The door +wouldn't shut, so I had to sleep all night with that fellow able to look +in upon me at any moment. After I had been in bed a little while, I +remembered something I had left in the sitting-room and wanted. I got up +quietly to fetch it. That door was locked, on the sitting-room side!" + +"Poor old boy! We'll soon put all that right. You see you were pretty +bad, while you _were_ bad; and all kinds of precautions were necessary. +We felt sure of a complete recovery, and I always predicted that it +would be sudden. But it is bound to take a little while to get all your +surroundings readjusted. Why not go home at once? Pack up and go back to +Hollymead this afternoon, and have a real jolly Christmas there--you, +and Helen, and the kid." + +"The kid?" queried Ronnie, perplexed. "What kid? Oh, you mean my +'cello--the Infant of Prague." + +Dick, meanwhile, had bitten his tongue severely. + +"Yes, the jolly old Infant of Prague, of course. Is it 'he,' 'she,' or +'it'? I forget." + +"It," replied Ronnie, gravely. "In the peace of its presence one forgets +all wearying 'he and she' problems. Yes, I want most awfully to get back +to my 'cello. I want to make sure it is not broken; and I want to make +sure it is no dream, that I can play. But--I don't want to go, unless I +can go alone. Can't you prescribe complete solitude, as being absolutely +essential for me? Dick, I'm wretched! I don't care where I go; but I +want to get away by myself." + +"Why, old man?" + +"Because my wife still considers me insane." + +"Nonsense, Ron! And don't talk of being insane. You were never that. +Some subtle malarial poison, we shall never know what, got into your +blood, affected your brain, and you've had a bad time--a very bad +time--of being completely off your balance; the violent stage being +followed by loss of memory, and for a time, though mercifully you knew +nothing about it, complete loss of sight. But these things returned, one +by one; and, as soon as you were ready for it, you awoke to +consciousness, memory, and reason. There is no possible fear of the +return of any of the symptoms, unless you come again in contact with the +poison; hardly likely, as it attacked you in Central Africa. Of course, +as I say, we shall never know precisely what the poison was." + +Then Ronnie spoke, suddenly. "It was the Upas tree," he said. "I camped +near it. My nightmares began that night. I never felt well, from that +hour." + +"Rubbish!" said Dr. Dick. "More likely a poisonous swamp. The Upas tree +is a myth." + +"Not at all," insisted Ronnie. "It is a horrid reality. I had seen the +one in Kew Gardens. I recognised it directly, yet I camped in its +shadow. Dick, do you know what the Upas stands for?" + +"What?" + +"Selfishness! It stands for any one who is utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish." + +"Oh, buck up old man!" cried Dick. "We are all selfish--every mother's +son of us! Perhaps that's why! Most men's mothers spoil them, and their +wives continue the process. But you will be selfish with a vengeance, if +you don't buck up and give that splendid wife of yours a good time now. +She has been through--such a lot. Ronnie, you will never quite +realise--well, _I_ never knew such a woman, excepting, perhaps, Mrs. +Dalmain; and of course she has not your wife's beauty. I haven't the +smallest intention of ever coming under the yoke myself. But I assure +you, old chap, if you had pegged out, as you once or twice seemed likely +to do, I should have had a jolly good try as to whether I couldn't chip +in, by-and-by." + +"Confound you!" said Ronnie. But he laughed, and felt better. + + * * * * * + +Dr. Dick saw Helen alone. + +"Well," he said, "so we've pulled him through. Ronnie's all right now. +No more need for watching and planning, and guarding; in fact, the less +he realises the precautions which were necessary, the better. I shall +take Truscott back to town with me. He seems to have done awfully well. +I suppose you have no complaints. Why don't you hire a car and run +straight back home with Ronnie this afternoon. Think what a jolly +Christmas you might have. Show him the boy as a Christmas present! I +believe he is keen to be at home; and the less you thwart him now, the +better. Don't suggest it until I am gone; but send a wire home at once +to say you are probably returning this afternoon. Then your people will +make all needed preparations for the festive day; turkeys and holly, and +all that sort of thing; have fires lighted everywhere, and all in +readiness. My old sweetheart, Mrs. Blake, will put on cherry-coloured +ribbons, and black satin, and be in the hall to receive you! You had +better mention, in the wire, that I am not coming; then she won't waste +her time hanging mistletoe in likely corners." + +Helen wrote the telegram, rang, and gave it to a page. + +Then she turned to Dr. Dick. + +"Ronnie is _not_ fully himself, yet," she said. + +Dick looked at her keenly. "How so?" + +"He professes to remember, and does remember, everything which happened, +up to the final crash in the studio. Yet he has made no mention to me +of--of our child." + +"He is shy about it," suggested Dick. "You speak first." + +"I cannot," she replied. "It is for Ronald to do that." + +"Ah, you dear women!" moralised the young bachelor. "You remind me of +Nebuchadnezzar--no, I mean Naaman. You bravely ford the rushing waters +of your Abanas and your Pharpars, and then you buck-jump at the little +river Jordan!" + +"My dear Dick, I am becoming accustomed to the extraordinary inaptness +of your scriptural allusions. But this is hardly a _small_ matter +between me and Ronnie. I am ready to make every allowance for his +illness and loss of memory; but I don't see how I can start life with +him at home, until he manages to remember a thing of such vital import +in our wedded life. He may be sane on every other point. I cannot +consider him sane on this." + +"Shall I tell him?" suggested Dick. + +"No, let him remember. He can remember his Infant of Prague; his mind +is full of that again. Why should he not be able to remember my baby +son?" + +"Oh, lor!" sighed Dr. Dick. "Why not put that poser to Ronnie direct, +instead of putting it to me? Forgive me for saying so, but you are +suffering just now from a reaction, after the terrible strain through +which you have passed. And Ronnie is wretched too, because he remembers +how you let fly at him that evening, and he thinks you really meant it." + +"I did," said Helen. "Of course, had I known how ill he was, poor old +boy, I should have been more patient. But I have a little son to +consider now, as well as Ronnie. I _did_ think him selfish, and I _do_." + +"My dear angel," said Dr. Dick, "we are all selfish, every mother's son +of us; and it is you blessed women who make us so." + +She looked at him, with softening eyes. "_You_ are not selfish, Dick," +she said. + +"I am," he answered; "and a long chalk worse than Ronnie. I combine +ambition with my selfishness. I jolly well mean to get to the top of the +tree, and I don't care how I get there. I down every one who dares stand +in my way; or--I use them as stepping-stones. There! Isn't that a worse +Upas tree than poor old Ronnie's? Mine is a life untouched by love, or +any gentler feelings. All that sort of thing was killed in me when I was +quite a little chap. It is the story of a broken halo. Perhaps I'll tell +it you some day. Meanwhile, this being Christmas Eve and not Ash +Wednesday, I'll make no more confessions. Don't you want to hear the +result of my psychic investigations, concerning our mirror experiences?" + +"Exceedingly," said Helen. "Have you time to tell me now?" + +"Heaps of time. It won't take long. Last night I told the whole story to +a man who makes a special study of these matters, and knows more about +things psychic than any other man in England. The Brands asked me to +dinner and arranged to have him also. After dinner he and I went down +alone to the doctor's consulting room, and talked the whole thing out. I +was careful to mention no names. You don't want to be credited with a +haunted room at the Grange, neither do we want Ronnie's name mixed up +with psychical phenomena. Now I will give you this man's opinion and +explanation, exactly as he gave it to me. Only, remember, I pass it on +as his. I do not necessarily endorse it. + +"He holds that inanimate objects, such as beds, walls, cupboards, +staircases, have a power of receiving, absorbing and retaining +impressions transmitted to them through contact with human minds in +extreme conditions of stress and tension. This would especially be the +case with intimately personal things, such as musical instruments, or +favourite chairs. Old rooms and ancient furniture might retain these +impressions for centuries; and, under certain circumstances, transmit +them to any mind, with which they came in contact, happening to be +strung up to the right key to respond to the psychic impression. He +considers that this theory accounts for practically all ghost stories +and haunted rooms, passages, and staircases. It reduces all apparitions +to the subjective rather than the objective plane; in other words the +spirit of a murdered man does not return at certain times to the room in +which he was done to death; but his agonised mind, in its last conscious +moments, left an impress upon that room which produces a subjective +picture of the scene, or part of the scene, upon any mind psychically +_en rapport_ with that impress. I confess this idea appeals to me. It +accounts for the undoubted fact that certain old rooms are undeniably +creepy; also that apparitions, unconnected with actual flesh and blood, +have been seen by sane and trustworthy witnesses. It does away with the +French word for ghost--_revenant_. There is no such thing as a +'comer-back,' or an 'earth-bound spirit.' Personally, I do not believe +in immortality, in the usually accepted sense of the word; but I have +always felt that were there such a thing as a disembodied spirit, it +would have something better to do than to walk along old corridors, +frightening housemaids! But, to come to the point, concerning our own +particular experience. + +"I carefully told him every detail. He believes that probably the old +Florentine chair and the 'cello had been in conjunction before, and had +both played their part in the scene which was re-acted in the mirror. If +so, poor old Ron was jolly well in for it, seated in the chair, and +holding the 'cello. His already over-excited brain found itself caught +between them. The fitful firelight and the large mirror supplied +excellent mediums for the visualisation of the subjective picture. Of +course, we do not yet know what Ronnie saw. I trust we never shall. It +is to be hoped he has forgotten it. Had you and I seen nothing, we +should unquestionably have dismissed the whole thing as merely a +delirious nightmare of Ronnie's unhinged brain. + +"But the undoubted fact remains that we each saw, reflected in that +mirror, objects which were not at that moment in the room. In fact we +saw the _past_ reflected, rather than the _present_. My psychic +authority considers that both our impressions came to us through +Ronnie's mind, and were already fading, owing to the fact that he had +become unconscious. I, coming in later than you, merely saw the +Florentine chair in position. All else in my view of the reflection +appertained to the actual present, into which the long-ago past was then +rapidly merging. But you, coming in a few moments sooner, and being far +more _en rapport_ with the spirit of the scene, saw the tall man in a +red cloak--whom you call the Avenger--strangling the girl. By the way, +why do you call him the Avenger?" + +"Because," said Helen, slowly, "there was murder in the cruel face of +the woman, and there was a dagger in her hand. She had struck her blow +before he appeared upon the scene. I know this, because it was the flare +of his crimson cloak, as he rushed in, which first caught my eye, in the +firelight, and made me look into the mirror at all. Before that I was +intent on Ronnie. The Avenger seized the woman from behind; I saw his +brown hands on the whiteness of her throat. Grief and horror were on his +face, as he looked over her shoulder, and past the chair, at the +prostrate heap upon the floor." + +"Which heap," said Dick, trying to speak lightly, "was our poor Ronnie." + +"No," said Helen, gazing straight before her into the fire, "the heap +upon the floor was _not_ Ronnie." + +"But--I am positive!--I saw it myself! I saw you kneeling beside it. I +helped to sort it, afterwards. The actual heap on the floor was the +broken chair, Ronnie mixed up with it; and, on top of both, that unholy +Infant, whose precocious receptivity is responsible for the entire +business. I exonerate the Florentine chair; I exonerate poor Ronnie. I +shall always maintain that that confounded 'cello worked the whole show, +out of its own unaided tummy!" + +But Helen did not laugh. She did not even smile. "The heap on the floor +was not Ronnie," she repeated firmly, "nor was I kneeling beside it. The +Italian chair had not fallen over. Not a single thing appertaining to +the present, was reflected in the picture as I first saw it. Dick, there +was a conclusion to my vision of which I have never told you." + +"Oh, lor!" said Dick. "When I guaranteed the psychic chap that I was +putting him in full possession of every detail!" + +"I am sorry, Dick. But until this moment I have never felt able to tell +you. I cannot do so now, unless you are nice." + +"I _am_ nice," said Dick, "_very_ nice! Tell me quick." + +"Well, as I knelt transfixed, watching--the heap on the floor moved and +arose. It was a slight dark man, with a white face, and a mass of +tumbled black hair. He lifted from off his breast as he got up, a +violoncello. He did not look at the woman, nor at the man in the crimson +cloak; he stood staring, as if petrified with grief and dismay, at his +'cello. Following his eyes, I saw a dark jagged stab, piercing its +right breast, just above the _f_ hole. The anguish on the 'cellist's +face, was terrible to see. Then--oh, Dick, I don't know how to tell +you!" + +"Go on, Helen," he said, gently. + +"Then he turned from the 'cello, and looked at _me_; and, Dick, it was +the soul of Ronnie--_my_ Ronnie--in deepest trouble over his Infant of +Prague, which looked at me through those deep sad eyes. I cannot explain +to you how I knew it! He was totally unlike my big fair Ronnie, but--it +was the soul of Ronnie, in great distress, looking at _me_! The moment I +realised this, I seemed set free from the past. The 'cellist, the woman, +the Avenger, all vanished instantly. I saw myself reflected, I saw you, +I saw the studio; I saw Ronnie on the floor. I turned to him at once, +lifted the 'cello from his breast, and drew his head into my lap." + +"Was there a jagged hole--" + +"No, not a scratch. The stab belonged to a century ago. But, listen +Dick! Several days later, when I had a moment in which to remember +Ronnie's poor Infant of Prague, I examined it in a good light, and found +the place where the hole made by that dagger had been skilfully mended." + +"Lor!" said Dr. Dick. "We're getting on! Don't you think you and I and +the Infant might put our heads together, and write a psychic book! But +now--seriously. Do you really believe Ronnie was once a slim, pale +person, with a shock of black hair? And if he and his Infant lived +together in past ages, where were you and I? Are we altogether out of +it? Or are you the lady with the dagger, and I the noble party in the +flaming cloak?" + +She smiled, and a look of quiet peace was in her eyes. + +"Dick," she said, "I am not troubled at all about the past. My whole +concern is with the present; my earnest looking forward is to the +future. And remember, that which set me completely free to think only of +the present, was when my Ronnie's soul looked out at me from that +strange vision of the past. I cannot say exactly what I believe. But I +know my entire responsibility is to the present; my hope and confidence +are towards the future. I realise, as I have never realised before, the +deep meaning of the words: 'Lord, Thou hast been our Dwelling-place, in +all generations.' I am content to leave it at that." + +Dick sat silent; sobered, impressed, by a calm confidence of faith, +which was new to him. + +Then he said: "Good for you, Helen, that you can take it so. Personally, +I believe in nothing which I cannot fully explain and understand. +'Faith,' in your sense of the word, has no place in my vocabulary. I was +a very small boy when my faith took to itself wings and flew away; and, +curiously enough, it was while I was singing lustily, in the village +church at Dinglevale: 'As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever +shall be; world without end, Amen'!" + +"It will come back again," said Helen. "Dick, I know it will come back. +Some day you will come to me and you will say: 'It has come back.' The +thrusting hand and the prying finger are the fashion nowadays, I know. +But the grand old faith which will win out in the end, is the faith +which stands with clasped hands, in deepest reverence of belief; and, +lifting adoring eyes, is not ashamed to say to the revelation of a Risen +Christ: 'My Lord and my God!'" + +Dick stirred uneasily in his chair. + +"We have got off the subject," he said, "and it's about time we looked +up Ronnie. But, first of all: how much of all this do you mean to tell +Ronnie?" + +"Nothing whatever, if I can help it," replied Helen. "So far as I know, +I hope, after this morning, never to mention the subject again." + +"I think you are wise. And now let me give you a three-fold bit of +advice. Smash the mirror; burn the chair; brain the Infant!" + +Helen laughed. "No, no, Dick!" she said. "I can do none of those things. +I must take tenderest care of Ronnie's Infant. I have had his valuable +old chair carefully mended; and I must not let him think I fear the +mirror." + +"You're a brave woman," said Dick. "Believing what you do, you're a +brave woman to live in the house with that mirror. Or, perhaps, it comes +of believing so much. A certainty of confidence, which asks no +questions, must be to some extent a fortifying thing. By the way, you +will remember that the long rigmarole I gave you was not my own +explanation, but the expert's? Mine is considerably simpler and shorter. +In fact, it can be summed up in three words." + +"What is your explanation, Dick?" + +"Whisky and soda," said Dr. Dick, bravely. "You mixed it stiffer than +you knew. I was dead beat, and had had no food. I have always been a +fairly abstemious chap; in my profession we have to be: woe betide the +man who isn't. But since I saw that chair standing on its four legs in +the mirror, when it was lying broken on the floor in reality, I have not +touched a drop of alcohol. There! I make you a present of that for your +next temperance meeting. Now let's go out and buck Ronnie up. Remember, +he'll feel jolly flat for a bit, with no temperature. Temperature is a +thing you miss, when it has become a habit." + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +"HE NEVER KNEW!" + + +Ronnie saw Dick off by the mid-day train. + +After the train had begun to move, Dick leaned from the window, and said +suddenly: "Ronnie! talk to your wife about her Leipzig letter, and--_the +kid_, you know." + +Ronnie kept pace with the train long enough to say: "I wish you wouldn't +call it the 'kid,' Dick; it is the 'Infant.' And Helen declines to talk +of it." + +Then he dropped behind, and Dick flung himself into a corner of his +compartment, with a face of comic despair. "Merciful heavens," he said, +"slay that Infant!" + +Meanwhile Ronnie was saying to a porter: "When is the next train for +town?" + +"One fifty-five, sir." + +"Then I have no chance now of catching the three o'clock from town, for +Hollymead?" + +"Not from town, sir. But there is a way, by changing twice, which gets +you across country, and you pick up the three o'clock all right at +Huntingford, four ten." + +"Are you sure, my man? I was told there was no way across country." + +"The one fifty-five is the only train in the day by which you can do it, +sir. I happen to know, because I have a sister lives at Hollymead, so +I've done it m'self. If trains aren't late, you hit off the three +o'clock at Huntingford." + +"Thanks," said Ronnie, noting down particulars. Then he walked rapidly +back to the hotel. + +"I can't stand it," he said. "I shall bolt! With me off her hands, she +can go and have a jolly Christmas at the Dalmains. She is always welcome +there. I must get away alone and think matters out. I know everything is +all wrong, and yet I don't exactly know what has come between us. I only +know I am wretched, and so is she. It is still the poison of the Upas. +If I knew why she suddenly considered me utterly, preposterously, +altogether, selfish, I would do my level best to put it right. But I +don't." + +He found Helen in the hall, anxiously watching the door. She took up a +paper, as he came in. + +"Helen," he said, "do you mind if we lunch punctually at one o'clock? I +am going out before two." + +"Why, certainly we will," said Helen. "You must have had a very early +breakfast, Ronnie. But don't overdo, darling. Remember what Dick said. +Shall I come with you?" + +"I would rather go alone," said Ronnie. "I want to think things over." + +She rose and stood beside him. + +"Ronnie dear, we seem to have lost all count of days. But, as a matter +of fact, to-morrow is Christmas Day. Would you like to go home this +afternoon? We can order a car for two o'clock, and be at the Grange for +tea. Ronnie, wouldn't it be rather lovely? Think of the little cosy +tea-table, and your own especial chair, and the soft lamp-light--" + +She paused abruptly. The mental picture had recalled to both the evening +on which they last stood together in that golden lamplight. + +Ronnie hesitated, looking at the floor. Then he raised his eyes to +Helen's. "I don't think I could bear it," he said, turned from her +quickly, and went upstairs. + +In his room he scribbled a note. + +"My wife--I am awfully sorry, but I simply _had_ to bolt. Don't be +alarmed. I have gone home to the Grange. I believe, when I am by myself +in the house where we spent the three years I thought so perfect and so +happy, I shall find out what is the matter; I shall get to the very root +of the Upas tree. + +"I know I somehow hurt you horribly on the night I reached home, by +asking you to come to the studio to hear me play my 'cello; but, before +God, I haven't the faintest idea why! + +"You would not have said what you did, had you known I was ill; but +neither would you have said it, unless it had been true. If it was true +then, it is true now. If it is true now, we can't spend Christmas Day +together. + +"I want you to go to the Dalmains by motor, as soon as you find this, +and have a jolly, restful time with them. You look worn out. + + "RONNIE." + +"P.S.--I am obliged to leave this in my room. I hope you will find it +there. I don't even know where your room is, Helen, in this beastly +hotel." + +Ronnie considered his postscript; then crossed out "beastly" and +substituted "large." But "beastly" still showed, pathetically, beneath +the line. And, by-and-by, the heart of Ronnie's wife, from which all +clouds had suddenly rolled away, understood it, and wept over it, and +kissed it; and thought "beastly" a dear word! It was so quaintly like +Ronnie to substitute "large" for "beastly." + +All clouds had rolled away, before Helen read the note; for this is what +had happened. + + * * * * * + +Ronnie had excused himself when lunch was half over. + +Helen let him go, trying to act on Dr. Dick's advice not to worry him by +seeming to watch or follow him. + +So she sat on alone, finishing luncheon, and thus did not see Ronnie +walk out of the front door, carrying his bag. + +Soon afterwards she passed into the hall, and sat dipping into the +papers and thinking over her talk with Dick. + +Presently a page stepped up to her with a letter on a salver. + +Her heart stood still as she saw the stamp, the post-mark, and the +writing. It was from Aubrey Treherne, forwarded from Hollymead. + +Helen was sorely tempted for a moment to burn it unread. She had +suffered so much through a former letter in that handwriting. She +suddenly realised how cruelly Aubrey's words about Ronnie had, in the +light of Ronnie's subsequent behaviour, eaten into her soul. + +She looked at the fire. She rose and moved towards it, the letter in her +hand. + +Then better counsels prevailed. + +She went slowly upstairs to her sitting-room, closed the door, sat down, +and opened Aubrey's letter. + +It contained a smaller envelope sealed, on which was written: "Read +letter first." + +She opened the folded sheets. + + +"DEAR HELEN, + +"Yes, you are right about God's Word not returning void. Your own words, +I admit, only hardened me; but those at the end of your letter broke me +up. I am so very far removed from light and fellowship, love and +forgiveness. I doubt if I can ever get back into the way of peace. + +"But, anyhow, before the great Feast of Peace upon earth, goodwill +toward men, I can take a first step by fully confessing the great wrong +I did to you and to your husband rather more than a month ago, on the +evening which he spent at my flat. + +"Possibly you have found it out already; but possibly not, as I hear he +has been very seriously ill. + +"The evening he was here, he was more or less queer and light-headed, +but he was full of you, and of his delight in going home. I suppose this +all helped to madden me. No need to explain why. You know. + +"He had found a letter from you at the _Poste Restante_; but, rushing +around to his publishers, etc., had not had time to read it. + +"When he remembered it and found it in his pocket-book, he stood with +his back to my stove, in great excitement, and tore it open; I sitting +by. + +"As he unfolded the large sheets of foreign paper, a note flew out from +between them, and fell, unseen by him, to the floor. + +"I put my foot on it. I gathered, from extracts he read me from the +letter, that this note was of importance. + +"When he found in a postscript that you mentioned an enclosure, he +hunted everywhere for it; not thinking, of course, to look under my +foot. + +"He then concluded, on my instigation, that, after all, you had not +enclosed any note. + +"At the first opportunity I transferred it to my pocket, made an excuse +to leave the room, and read it. + +"Helen, believe me, had I known beforehand the news that note contained, +I don't think I could have been such a fiend. + +"But once having done it, I carried it through. I allowed your husband +to go home in total ignorance of the birth of his son. It was I who put +the word 'astonishing' into his telegram; and, in my letter to you, I +led you to suppose I had heard the news from him. + +"I don't know exactly what I expected to gain from all this. But, in a +condition of mad despair, I seemed playing my very last card; and I +played it for all it was worth--which apparently was not much! + +"I did plenty of other devilish work that night--chiefly mental +suggestion. This is the only really confessable thing. + +"The letter your husband never saw, is in the enclosed envelope. He will +like to have it now. + +"Thus, as you see, the Word has not returned unto you void. It brings +you the only reparation I can make. + + "AUBREY TREHERNE." + +Helen tore open the sealed envelope, and found her little pencil note, +the tender outpouring to Ronnie, written three days after her baby's +birth. + +So Ronnie never saw it--he never knew! He came home without having the +remotest idea that she had been through anything unusual in his absence. +He had heard no word or hint of the birth of his little son. Yet she had +called him utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish, because he had +quite naturally expected her to be as interested as ever in his pursuits +and pleasures. + +Oh, Ronnie, Ronnie! + + * * * * * + +She flew to his room, hoping he had not yet gone out. + +On the table she found a note addressed to herself. + +She tore it open, read it--- then went back into the sitting-room, and +pealed the bell. + +"Send my maid to me at once, and the hall-porter." + +They arrived together. + +Helen had just written a long telegram to her housekeeper. + +She spoke to the hall-porter first. + +"Send off this telegram, please. Then procure the fastest motor-car you +can find, to run me over to Hollymead this afternoon. We can be ready to +start in half-an-hour's time." + +Then she turned to her maid. + +"Jeffreys, we go home for Christmas after all. Mr. West has gone on by +train. We must pack as promptly as possible, and start in half-an-hour. +We may perhaps get home before him. I doubt whether he can catch +anything down from town before the five o'clock." + +She flew to her room, pressing Ronnie's sad little note to her heart. +All the world looked different! Ah, what would it be, now, to tell him +of his little son! But she must get home before him. Supposing Ronnie +went upstairs alone, and found the baby! + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +THE FACE IN THE MIRROR + + +Ronnie caught the three o'clock train from town, at Huntingford, as the +porter had predicted. + +No carriage was at the station, so he had a rather long walk from +Hollymead to the Grange. + +It was a clear, crisp evening and freezing hard. He could feel the frost +crackle under his feet, as he tramped along the country lanes. + +When he came in sight of the lodge, it reminded him of an old-fashioned +Christmas card; the large iron gates, their grey stone supports covered +with moss and lichen and surmounted by queer rampant beasts unknown to +zoology, holding in their stone claws oval shields on which were carved +the ancient arms of Helen's family; the little ivy-covered house, with +gabled roof and lattice-windows, firelight from within, shining golden +and ruddy on the slight sprinkling of frosty snow. + +As he passed in at the gate he saw the motherly figure of Mrs. Simpkins, +a baby on her arm, appear at the window, lifting her hand to draw down +the crimson blind. Before the blind shut in the bright interior, Ronnie +caught a glimpse of three curly heads round a small Christmas-tree on +the kitchen-table. Simpkins, in his shirt-sleeves, was lighting the +topmost candle. + +Ronnie walked on beneath the chestnuts and beeches, up the long sweep of +the park drive, a dark lonely figure. + +He was very tired; his heart was heavy and sad. + +It had been such a cheery glimpse of home, through the lodge window, +before the red blind shut it in. Simpkins was a lucky fellow. Mrs. +Simpkins looked so kind and comfortable, with the baby's head nestling +against her capacious bosom. + +Ronnie turned to look back at the brightly-lighted cottage. The ruddy +glow from the blind, fell on the snow. He wondered whether there was a +Upas tree in that humble home. Surely not! A Upas tree and a +Christmas-tree could hardly find place in the same home. The tree of +Light and Love, would displace the tree of subtle poison. + +He turned wearily from the distant light and plodded on. + +Then he remembered that, in her last letter, Helen had said: "Ronnie, we +will have a Christmas-tree this Christmas." Why had Helen said that? He +had fully intended to ask her, but had not thought of it from that hour +to this. + +Possibly it was just a wish to yield to his whim in the matter. Perhaps +she was planning to have all the little Simpkins kids up to the house. + +Well, if Helen spent Christmas with the Dalmains, she would come in for +little Geoff's Christmas-tree, which would certainly be a beauty. + +He plodded heavily on. He felt extraordinarily lonely. Would Helen miss +him? Hardly. You do not miss a selfish person. He would miss +Helen--horribly; but then Helen was not selfish. She was quite the most +unselfish person he had ever known. + +He went over in his mind all the times when Helen had instantly given up +a thing at his wish. Amongst others, he remembered how, on that spring +morning so long ago, when he had told her of his new book and of his +plan, she had been wanting to tell him something, yet he had allowed her +interest to remain untold, when she threw herself heart and soul into +his. He began to wonder what it could have been; and whether it would be +too late to ask her now. + +At last he reached the house, and felt slightly cheered to see lights +and fires within. He had almost anticipated darkness. + +Mrs. Blake herself opened the door, resplendent in black satin; lavender +ribbons in her lace cap. + +"La, sir!" she said. "Fancy you walking from the station! You must +please to excuse Simpkins being out. He has some Christmasing on at the +lodge, for his fam'ly." + +"I know," said Ronnie. "I saw a Christmas-tree as I passed. I shall not +require Simpkins. Blake, is there a fire in the studio?" + +"There is, sir, a fine one, for the good of the piano. There is also a +fire in the sitting-room, sir, where I will at once send in some tea." + +"No, not there," said Ronnie quickly. "I will have tea in the studio." + +But Mrs. Blake was firm. "That I couldn't ever, sir! Mrs. West wouldn't +wish it. She thinks so much of you having tea in her sitting-room, and +beside her fire; which is much more, so to say, cosy than that great +unfurnished room, all looking-glass." + +At mention of the mirror Ronnie shivered, and yielded. He had almost +forgotten the mirror. + +So he sat in his own favourite chair, while Blake stood and poured out +his first cup of tea, then left him to the utter loneliness of being in +that room without Helen. + +It is doubtful whether Ronnie had ever loved his wife so passionately +as he loved her while he experienced, for the first time, what it was +like to be without her, in the room where they had hitherto always been +together. + +Everything he touched, everything at which he looked, spoke of Helen; +forcing upon him the consciousness of the sweetness of her presence, and +the consequent hardness of her absence. + +Yet he had brought this hardness on himself. She had said: "Wouldn't it +be rather lovely to have tea together?" But he had answered: "I don't +think I could bear it." And now he did not know how to bear the fact +that she was not with him. + +Then he saw the chair against which he had leaned his 'cello, and with a +thrill of comfort he remembered the Infant of Prague. + +How had it fared all this time, in its canvas bag? Perhaps no one had +remembered even to put it back into that. + +Having hastily swallowed his tea, lest Blake should arrive at the studio +to inquire what had been amiss with it, Ronnie hurried down the +corridor, entered the long, low room, and turned on the electric light. +As before, a great log fire burned on the hearth; but he needed more +light now, than mere fitful fire-gleams. He wanted to examine the +Infant. + +He looked round the room, and there, on a wide settee under one of the +windows, lay a polished rosewood 'cello-case. + +Ronnie, springing forward, bent down eagerly. The key was in the lock. +He turned it, and lifted the lid. + +There lay the Infant, shining and beautiful as ever, in a +perfectly-fitting bed, lined with soft white velvet. The whole thing +carried out exactly Ronnie's favourite description of his 'cello: "just +like the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur." The +open rosewood case, with its soft white lining, was the bursting bur; +and within lay his beautiful Infant! + +Helen had done this. + +Ronnie's pleasure was largely tinged with pain. Helen, who did not like +his 'cello, had done this to please him, yet was not here to see his +pleasure. + +Ronnie drew forth the bow from its place in the lid, opened a little +nest which held the rosin, then tenderly lifted the Infant of Prague and +carried it to the light. + +At first sight, its shining surface appeared perfect as ever. Then, +looking very closely, and knowing exactly where to look, Ronnie saw a +place just above the _f_ hole on the right, where a blow had evidently +been struck deeply into the 'cello. A strip of wood, four inches long, +by one inch wide, had been let in, then varnished so perfectly that the +mend--probably the work of a hundred years ago--could only be seen in a +good light, and _by one who knew exactly where to look_. + +Ronnie stood with grave face gazing at the Infant. + +What did it all mean? + +He remembered with the utmost vividness every detail of the scene in the +mirror. + +Had he thought-read from his 'cello the happenings of a century before? +Had it transmitted to his over-wrought brain, the scene in which it had +once played so prominent a part? + +Had it, before then, in the Leipzig flat, imparted to Aubrey +Treherne--unconsciously to himself--an accurate mental picture of its +former owner? + +Ronnie mused on this, and wondered. Then the desire rose strong within +him to hear once more the golden voice of the Infant, even at the risk +of calling up again those ghostly phantoms of a vanished past. + +He drew the Florentine chair into the centre of the room. + +He took his seat on the embossed leather of crimson and gold. + +He glanced at his reflection. His face was whiter than it had been five +weeks ago, when he returned, deep bronzed, from Africa. His hair, too, +was longer than it ought to be; though not so long as the heavy black +locks of the 'cellist of that past reflection. + +Ronnie's rough tweed suit and shooting boots, were a curious contrast +to the satin knee-breeches, silken hose, and diamond shoe-buckles he +remembered in his vision; yet his manner of holding the 'cello, assumed +without conscious thought, and the positions of his knees and feet, were +so precisely those of that quaint old-time figure, that Ronnie never +doubted that when he raised the bow and his fingers bit into the +strings, the flood of harmony would be the same. + +He waited for the strong tremor to seize his wrist. + +It did not come. + +He sounded the four open strings, slowly, one after the other. + +Yes, the tones were very pure, very rich, very clear. + +Then he took courage, pressed his fingers into the finger-board, and +began to play. + +Alas, poor Infant of Prague! + +Alas, poor _born_ musician, who preferred doing things he had never +learned to do! + +The exquisite rise and fall of harmony, came not again. + +Bitterly disappointed, Ronnie waited, staring into the mirror. + +But a rather weary, very lonely, and exceedingly modern young man stared +back at him. + +At last he realised that he could no longer play the 'cello by +inspiration. So he began very carefully feeling for the notes. + +The Infant squeaked occasionally, and wailed a little; but on the whole +it behaved very well; and, after half-an-hour's work, having found out +the key which enabled him to use chiefly the open strings, Ronnie +managed to play right through, very fairly in tune, "O come, all ye +faithful, joyful and triumphant!" + +This gave him extraordinary pleasure. It seemed such a certainty of +possession, to be able to pick out all the notes for himself. + +He longed that Helen might be there to hear. + +The Infant of Prague grew dearer to him than ever. He was now mastering +it himself, independent of the antics of an old person of a century +ago, bowing away in the mirror. + +He tried again; and this time he sang the words of the first verse, as +he played. His really fine baritone blended well with the richness of +the silver strings. + +The words had occasionally to wait, suspended as it were in mid-air, +while he felt about wildly for the note on the 'cello; but, once found, +the note was true and good, and likely to lead more or less easily to +the next. + +A listener, in the corridor outside, pressed her hands to her breast, +uncertain whether she felt the more inclined to laugh or to weep. + +Ronnie began his verse again. + +"O come ... all ye ... faithful ... +joyful and tri ... tri ... tri ... _um_ +... phant ... O come, ye, O come ye, +to Beth ... Beth ... Beth ... +Be--eth--le--_hem!_" + +He paused, exhausted by the effort of drawing Bethlehem complete, out of +the complication of the Infant's four vibrating strings. + +He paused, and, lifting his eyes, looked into the mirror--and saw +therein the face of a woman, watching him from beside the door; a lovely +face, all smiles, and tears, and tenderness. + +At first he gazed, unable to believe his eyes. But, when her eyes met +his, and she knew that he saw her, she moved quickly forward, kneeled +down beside him, and--it was the face of his wife, all flooded with glad +tenderness, which, resting against his shoulder, looked up into his. + +She had spoken no word; yet at the first sight of her Ronnie knew that +the cloud which had been between them, was between no longer. + +"Helen," he said; "Oh, Helen!" + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN + + +Ronnie laid down his bow, and put his right arm round his wife. + +He still held the precious Infant of Prague between his knees, his left +hand on the ebony finger-board. + +"My darling!" Helen said. "So we shall be at home for Christmas after +all. How glad I am!" + +He looked at her dumbly, and waited. + +He felt like the prodigal, who had planned to suggest as his only +possible desert, a place among the hired servants, but was so lifted +into realisation of sonship by the father's welcome, that perforce he +left that sentence unspoken. + +So Ronnie looked at her dumbly, reading the utter love for him in her +eyes. + +Back came the words of his hymn, replete with fresh meaning. + +"O come, all ye faithful, +Joyful and triumphant!" + +They were such faithful eyes--Helen's; and now they seemed filled with +triumphant joy. + +"Ronnie," she said, "do you remember how I wrote to you at Leipzig, that +this Christmas we would have a Christmas-tree? Did not you wonder, +darling, why I said that?" + +"Yes," answered Ronnie. "I thought of it this evening when I saw a +Christmas-tree at the lodge. I had meant to ask you the night I reached +home, but I did not remember then." + +"Ah, if you had," she said, "if you only had!" + +"Well?" he questioned. "Tell me now." + +"Ronnie, do you remember that in that letter I said I had something to +tell you, and that I enclosed a note, written some weeks before, +telling you this thing?" + +"Yes, dear," said Ronnie. "But you forgot to enclose the note. It was +not there. I tore the envelope right open; I hunted high and low. Then +we concluded you had after all considered it unimportant." + +"It was all-important, Ronnie; and it _was_ there." + +"It was--_where_?" asked Ronnie. + +"Under Aubrey's foot.... Oh, hush, darling, hush! We must not say hard +things of a man who has confessed, and who is bitterly repentant. I +can't tell you the whole story now; you shall hear every detail later; +but he saw it fall from the letter, as you opened it. He was tempted, +first, to cover it with his foot; then, to put it in his pocket; and, +after he had read it, he wrote to me implying that you had told him the +news it contained; so, when you arrived home, how could I possibly +imagine that you did not know it?" + +"Did not know _what?_" asked Ronnie. + +She drew a folded paper from her pocket. + +"My darling, this will tell you best. It is the note intended to reach +you at Leipzig; it is the note which, until this afternoon, I had all +along believed you to have received." + +She put her note into his hand. + +"I hope you will be able to read it by this light, Ronnie. I was very +weak when I wrote it. I could only use pencil." + +Ronnie unfolded it gravely. + +She knelt, with bowed head, beside him. She dared not watch his face. + +She heard his breath come short and fast. He moved his knees, and let go +his 'cello. + +The Infant of Prague slipped unnoticed to the floor. + +When he read of the birth of his little son, with a hard choking sob, +Ronnie turned and gathered her to him, holding her close, yet eagerly +reading the letter over her head; reading it, to its very last word. + +Then, dropping the letter, he clasped her to him, with a strength and a +depth of tenderness such as she had never before known in Ronnie. And +his first words were not what Helen had expected. + +"Helen," he said, with another desperate tearless sob, "oh, to think +that you had to go through _that_--alone!" + +"My darling boy," she answered, "don't worry about that! It is all over, +now; and it is so true--oh, _so_ true, Ronnie--that the anguish is no +more remembered in the greatness of the joy." + +"But I can't forget," said Ronnie--"I shall never forget--that my wife +bore the suffering, the danger, the weakness, and I was not there to +share it. I did not even know what she was going through." + +"Ronnie dear--think of your little son." + +"I can think of nothing of mine just yet," he answered, "excepting of my +wife." + +She gave in to his mood, and waited; letting him hold her close in +perfect silence. + +It was strangely sweet to Helen, because it was so completely +unexpected. She had been prepared for a moment of intense surprise, +followed by a rapture of pride and delight; then a wild rush to the +nursery to see his first-born. She was quite willing, now her part was +over, that her part should be forgotten. It was as unexpected as it was +comfortingly precious, that Ronnie should be thus stricken by the +thought of her pain, and of her need of him to help her bear it. + +At last he said: "Helen, I see it all now. It was the Upas tree indeed: +utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish!" + +"My darling, no!" she cried. "Oh, don't be so unjust to yourself! When I +used those terrible words, I thought you had had my letter, had come +home knowing it all, yet absorbed completely in other things. Misled by +Aubrey, I cruelly misjudged you, Ronnie. It was not selfish to go; it +was not selfish to be away. You did not know, or you would not have +gone. I was glad you should not know, glad you should be away, so that I +could bear it alone, without hindering your work; letting you find the +joy when you reached home, without having had any of the hardness or +the worry. I wished it to be so, my darling boy--and I was glad." + +Then Ronnie gently put his wife out of his arms, and took her sweet face +between his hands, looking long into her eyes, before he made reply. And +Helen, steadfastly returning his gaze, saw a look growing in her +husband's face, such as she had never yet seen there, and knew, even +before he began to speak, what he was going to say; and her protective +love, longing as ever to shield him from pain, cried out: "Oh, must I +let him realise that?" + +But, at last, through the guidance of wiser Hands than hers, the matter +had passed beyond Helen's control. + +"My wife," said Ronnie slowly, "when I called it 'the Upas tree indeed,' +I did not mean the _one_ act of going off in ignorance and leaving you +alone during the whole of that time, when any man who cared at all would +wish to be at hand, to bear, and share, and guard. I do not brand that +as selfish; because you purposely withheld from me the truth, and bid +me go. But _why_ did you withhold it? Why, after the first shock, did +you feel glad to face the prospect of bearing it alone; glad I should be +away? Ah, here we find the very roots of the Upas tree! Was it not +because, during the whole of our married life, I have been cheerfully, +complacently selfish? I have calmly accepted as the rule of the home, +that I should hear of no worries which you could keep from me, tread +upon no thorns which you could clear out of my path, bear no burdens +which your loving hands could lift and carry out of sight. Your +interests, your pleasures, your friends, your pursuits, all have been +swept on one side, if they seemed in the smallest degree likely to +interfere with my work, my desires, my career. You have lived for +me--absolutely. I have lived for myself. True, we have loved each other +tenderly; we have been immensely happy. But, all the while, the shadow +of the Upas tree was there. My very love was selfish! It was sheer joy +to love you, because you are so sweetly, so altogether, lovable. But +when did I--because of my love for you--do one single thing at any cost +to self? I was utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish! You knew +this. You knew I hated pain, or worry, or anything which put my +comfortable life out of gear. So you gladly let me go, leaving you to +bear it all alone. You knew that, had you told me, I should have given +up my book and stayed with you; because my self-love would have been +more wounded by going than by staying. But you also knew that during all +those months you would have had to listen while I bemoaned the +circumstances, and bewailed my plot. You knew the bloom would be taken +off the coming joy, so you preferred to let me go. Oh, Helen, is not +this true?" + +She bent her head and kissed his hand. She was weeping silently. She +could not say it was not true. + +"It was the Upas tree indeed," said Ronnie. + +"Darling," she whispered, "it was my fault too--" + +"Hush," he said. "There are faults too noble to be accounted faults. +But--if you think you were at all to blame--you must atone, by truly and +faithfully helping in my fight to root up the Upas tree." + +"Ronnie," she said, "a pair of baby hands will help us both. We must +learn to live life at its highest, for the sake of our little son." + +Then, knowing he had endured as much heart-searching as a man could bear +and be the better for it, she said, smiling: + +"Ronnie, his funny little hands are so absurdly like yours." + +"Like _mine_?" repeated Ronnie, as one awaking slowly from a sad dream, +to a blissful reality. "Why are they like mine?" + +"Because he is a tiny miniature of you, you dear, silly old boy! You do +not seem to understand that you are actually a father, Ronnie, with a +little son of your own!" + +She looked up into his worn face, and saw the young glad joy of life +creep slowly back into it. + +"And his mouth, darling--his little mouth is just like yours; only, as +I told you in the letter, when I kiss it--it does not kiss back, +Ronnie." + +"What?" cried Ronnie. "What?" Then he understood; and, this time, it was +no mirage. Ronnie's desert wanderings were over. + + * * * * * + +"But don't you want to see your son?" Helen asked, presently. + +Ronnie leapt up. + +"See him? Why, of course I do! Oh, come on!... Helen! What does one say +to a very young baby?" + +Helen followed him upstairs, laughing. + +"That entirely depends upon circumstances. One usually says: 'Did it?' +'Is it then?' or 'Was it?' But I almost think present conditions require +a more definite statement of fact. I fancy one would say: 'How do you +do, baby? _I_ am your papa!' ... This way, Ronnie, in my own old +nurseries. Oh, darling, I am afraid I am going to cry! But you must not +mind. They will only be tears of unutterable joy. Think what it will be +to me, to see my baby in his father's arms!" + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +GOOD-NIGHT TO THE INFANT OF PRAGUE + + +The last hour of Christmas Eve ticked slowly to its close. + +On all around grew that sense of the herald angels, bending over a +waiting world, poised upon outstretched wings. The hush had fallen which +carries the mind away to the purple hills of Bethlehem, the watching +shepherds, the quiet folds, the sudden glory in the sky. + +The old Grange was closing its eyes at last, and settling itself to +slumber. + +One by one the brightly lighted windows darkened; the few remaining +lights moved upwards. + +The Hollymead Waits had duly arrived, and played their annual Christmas +hymns. They had won gold from Ronnie, by ministering to his new-found +proud delight in his infant son. The village blacksmith, who played the +cornet and also acted spokesman for the band, had closed the selections +of angelic music, by exclaiming hoarsely, under cover of the night: "A +merry Christmas and a 'appy New Year, to Mrs. West, to Mr. West, and to +_Master_ West!" + +Ronnie dashed out jubilant. The Waits departed well-content. + +Helen said: "You dear old silly!" + +"Master West," wakened by the cornet, also had something to say; but he +confided his remarks to his nurse, and was soon hushed back to slumber. + + * * * * * + +In the studio, the fire burned low. + +The reflections in the long mirror, were indefinite and dim. + +The Infant of Prague lay forgotten on the floor. + + * * * * * + +As midnight drew very near, the door of the studio was pushed softly +open, and Helen came in, wearing a soft white wrapper; a lighted candle +in her hand. + +She placed the candle on a table; then, stooping, carefully lifted +Ronnie's 'cello from the floor, laid it in its rosewood case, and stood +looking down upon it. Then, smiling, touched its silver strings, with +loving fingers. + +"Poor Infant of Prague!" she said. "Has Ronnie forgotten even to put you +to bed? Never mind! To-morrow you and he shall sing Christmas hymns +together, while I and his little son listen and admire." + +She closed the case. Then some impulse made her open it again. Her sweet +eyes filled with tears. No one was there to see. Ronnie's wife knelt +down and gently kissed the unconscious, shining face of the Infant of +Prague. + + * * * * * + +Turning from the settee beneath the window, she saw herself reflected in +the mirror--a tall fair figure in trailing garments, soft and white. + +She held the candle high above her head, looked at her own reflection, +and smiled. + +She was glad she was so lovely--for Ronnie's sake. + +Ronnie's love to-night was very wonderful. + +She moved towards the door, but paused in passing, to look into the +smouldering embers of the fire. + +At that moment the clocks struck midnight. She heard the Westminster +chimes, up on the landing. + +It was Christmas Day. + +"Unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given," murmured Helen. "Oh, +holy Christ of Christmas, may the new life to come be very perfect for +my Ronnie, my baby, and me." + + * * * * * + +"Helen!" came Ronnie's eager happy voice, shouting over the stairs. "I +say, _Helen_! Where are you?" + +"Coming, darling!" she called, passing out of the studio, and moving +swiftly down the corridor. + +Ronnie, on the landing, was leaning over the banisters, an expression +of comic dismay on his face. + +"Oh, I say!" he whispered. "I've done it now! I believe I've woke the +baby!" + +Helen, mounting the stairs, paused to look up at him, love and laughter +in her eyes. + +"Undoubtedly you have, you naughty boy! No shouting allowed here now, +after dark. But what do you think I was doing? Why, I was in the studio, +putting to bed the Infant of Prague." + + + + + THE END. + + + +_Almost One Million Copies of Mrs. Barclay's Popular Novels Printed_. + + * * * * * + +By Florence L. Barclay + +The Rosary + +==Cr. 8vo. $1.35 net. ($1.5O by mail.) Holiday Edition, with +Illustrations in Color by Blendon Campbell. $2.50 net. By mail, $2.75.== + +"An ideal love story--one that justifies the publishing business, +refreshes the heart of the reviewer, strengthens faith in the outcome of +the great experiment of putting humanity on earth. _The Rosary_ is a +rare book, a source of genuine delight."--_Syracuse Post-Standard._ + +The Mistress of Shenstone + +==Cr. 8vo. $1.35 net. ($1.50 by mail.) Holiday Edition, with 8 +Illustrations in Color by F.H. Townsend. $2.50 net. By mail, $2.75== + +"A worthy successor to _The Rosary_."--_Phila. Press_. + +The Following of the Star + +==With Frontispiece by F.H. Townsend. Cr. 8vo. $1.35 net. ($1.50 by +mail.) Holiday Edition, with 8 Illustrations in Color by F.H. Townsend, +$2.50 net. By mail $2.75== + +"A master work."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean_. + +Through the Postern Gate + +==(Under the Mulberry Tree)== + +A Romance in Seven Days + +==With 9 Illustrations in Color by F.H. Townsend. $1.35 net. ($1.50 by +mail.)== + +"A sweet and appealing love story told in a wholesome, simple +way."--_Literary Digest_. + +The Upas Tree + +==A Christmas Story for All the Year== + +==With Frontispiece in Color. $1.00 net. By mail, $1.10== + +A story of rare charm, powerful in conception, compelling in narrative, +and wholesome in effect. + + * * * * * + +New York G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS London + +_Myrtle Reed's New Book_ + +The White Shield + +By the Author of "Lavender and Old Lace," "The Master's Violin," etc. + +These fascinating bits of fiction reflect the characteristics of the +writer: the same vivid imagination, the quick transition from pathos to +humor, the facility of utterance, the wholesome sentiment, the purity of +thought, the delicacy of touch, the spontaneous wit which has endeared +Myrtle Reed to thousands of readers. + +_Frontispiece in color and 4 other illustrations by Dalton Stevens +beautifully printed and bound_. + +_Cloth, $1.50 net. By mail, $1.65_ + +Uniform with "A Weaver of Dreams" + +G.P. Putnam's Sons +New York London + +"_A born teller of stories. She certainly has the right stuff in +her._"--London Standard. + + +The Way of an Eagle + +By + +E.M. Dell + +_$1.35 net By mail, $1.50_ + +"In these days of overmuch involved plot and diction in the writing of +novels, a book like this brings a sense of refreshment, as much by the +virility and directness of its style as by the interest of the story it +tells.... The human interest of the book is absorbing. The descriptions +of life in India and England are delightful. ... But it is the intense +humanity of the story--above all, that of its dominating character, Nick +Ratcliffe, that will win for it a swift appreciation."--_Boston +Transcript._ + +"Well written, wholesome, overflowing with sentiment, yet never mawkish. +Lovers of good adventure will enjoy its varied excitement, while the +frankly romantic will peruse its pages with joy."--_Chicago +Record-Herald._ + +_Frontispiece in Color by John Cassel_ + + +G.P. Putnam's Sons New York London + +_Endorsed by A.C. Benson, A.E.W. Mason, W.J. Locke_ + + +Beyond the Law + +By Miriam Alexander + +_The Great Prize Novel. Awarded Prize of $1,250.00_ + +_Frontispiece in Color. $1.35 net. By mail, $1.50_ + + +A lively, unaffected, and interesting story of good craftsmanship, +showing imagination and insight, with both vivid and dramatic qualities. + +The scene is laid in Ireland and in France, the time is the William of +Orange period, and deals with the most cruel persecution against the +Catholics of Ireland. + +"The great charm of the story is that it is so essentially Irish. +Country and people are so lovingly, so feelingly, so understanding +described. The characters are strikingly original creations, finely +conceived and consistently developed. Its literary style is all that the +most critical would ask."--_Baltimore Sun._ + +G.P. Putnam's Sons +New York London + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Upas Tree, by Florence L. 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