Part IV

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