"THE FOG LIFTS"
When Ronnie came to himself, emerging quite suddenly from a long,
confused dream, which had held many voices, many happenings over which
he had exercised no control and which were too indefinite to be
remembered, he found himself sitting on a seat, on the esplanade at
Hazelbeach.
A crisp, wintry feeling was in the air; but the sun was brilliant, and
the high ground behind, sheltered the sea-front from wind.
He was muffled in his fur coat, and felt quite warm.
The first thing he consciously noticed was the sparkling of the ripple
on the calm water.
There is something particularly reviving and inspiriting about sunshine
on the gaily moving sea. The effect is produced with so little apparent
effort. The sun just shines; the water just moves; and lo, hosts of
sparkling diamonds!
Ronnie watched it in silence for some time, before giving any sign that
he actually saw it.
He was anxious carefully to take his bearings, without appearing to do
so.
Helen sat beside him on the seat. She kept up a flow of conversation, in
the kind, cheerful, intelligent voice in which you talk to a child who
has to be kept happy and amused.
Ronnie let her go on talking in that voice, while he took his bearings.
He glanced at her, furtively, once; then turned his eyes seaward again.
Helen, also, was wearing a fur coat, and a pretty grey fur toque on her
soft hair. Her face seemed thinner than it used to be; but the sea
breeze and sunshine had brought a bright colour to her cheeks.
Ronnie's eyes left the ripples, and wandered cautiously up and down the
shore.
The beach was deserted. No moving figures dotted the esplanade. Helen
and he would have been alone, had it not been for one tiresome man who
sat reading on the next seat to theirs. He looked like a superior valet
or upper footman, in a bowler and a black morning coat. He was just out
of earshot; but his presence prevented Ronnie from feeling himself alone
with Helen, and increased the careful caution with which he took his
bearings.
At last he felt the moment had arrived to stop Helen's well-meant
attempts at amusing him.
The man on the other seat was a dozen yards off to the right. Helen sat
quite close to him on the left. He turned his back on the other seat and
looked earnestly into his wife's face.
"Helen," he said, quietly, "how did we get here?"
"We motored, darling. It isn't very far across country, though to get
here by train we should have to go up to town and down again."
"When did we come?"
"Yesterday. Ronnie, do look at those funny little wooden houses just
beyond us on the esplanade. They take the place of bathing-machines, or
bathing-tents, in summer. They can be hired just for the morning, or you
can engage one for the whole time of your visit, and furnish it
comfortably. Don't you think it is quite a good idea? And people give
them such grand names. I saw one called 'Woodstock,' and another
'Highcombe House.' If we took one, we should have to call it 'The
Grange.'"
"Helen, you have told me all about those little huts twice already,
during the last half-hour. Only, last time you had seen one called
'Runnymead,' and another called 'The Limes.' Presently, if you like, we
will walk along and read all the names. It is just the kind of thing
which would appeal to our joint sense of humour. But first you must
answer a few more questions. Helen--where is my 'cello?"
"At home, Ronnie."
"Was it broken?"
Helen looked distressed. "No, darling, it was not injured at all. It is
safely put away. Look how the sunlight sparkles on those distant
ripples!"
"I have finished with the ripples thank you, darling. Helen, I know I've
been desperately ill. But I'm all right now, and I want you to tell me
all about it."
He saw her glance past him, at the man who sat reading on the next seat.
"Don't worry about him," he said. "He can't overhear. If you think he
can, let's move on."
"No, no!" said Helen, quickly. "We are so cosy here in the sunshine.
Ronnie, do you see those--"
"No, dear," he said, "I don't! At this moment I see nothing but you. And
I decline to have my attention drawn any more to the exciting things to
be seen on the shore at Hazelbeach in winter.... Oh, yes, I knew it was
Hazelbeach! Five years ago I spent a jolly week here with some friends.
We hired a little wooden hut and called it 'Buckingham Palace,' I
remember."
He slipped his hand into her muff, capturing both hers.
Her look of anxiety and alarm went to his heart. He had never seen Helen
frightened before; and he knew with unerring instinct that she was
afraid--_of him_.
It was hard; for he was desperately tired in mind and body. To subside
into passive acquiescence and watch the ripples again, would be the
easier way. But he must make a fight for his newly-recovered sanity and
reason, and to convince Helen in the matter seemed the first thing to be
accomplished.
Her hands were shaking in her muff. He held them firmly with his.
"Darling," he said, "I know I have been very bad. I was ill in Leipzig,
though I didn't know it. But Dick Cameron told me I ought not to have
been going about there. I suppose since then I have been quite off my
head. But, oh, Helen, can't you see--- can't you _see_, darling--that I
am all right again now? I can remember practically nothing which has
happened since I played my 'cello in front of the mirror in the studio.
But, up to that moment, I remember everything quite clearly; my travels,
my manuscript, the time when I began to get feverish and lost my
sleep--I can see now the very spot where I camped when I had my first
nightmare. Then working night and day on board ship, then Leipzig, the
Hague, London in a fog; then home--to you. Helen, it has all come back.
Can't you realise that the clouds have lifted; can't you believe, my own
dear girl, that my mind is clear again? Look at the sunshine on the sea,
dispelling the morning mists. _In hoc signo vinces!_ You said the path
of clear shining was the way to victory. Well, I have conquered whatever
it was which poisoned my brain for a while. I am absolutely myself again
now. Can't you believe it, Helen?"
The tears were running down her cheeks. She looked full into his earnest
eyes.
"Oh, Ronnie, you do look different! You do look your own dear self. Oh,
Ronnie, my own! But Dick is coming back to-morrow. He went up to town
only this morning. He will tell us what to do. Till then, don't you
think we had better just talk about the sea, and the little houses,
and--and how happy we are?"
"No, Helen," he said firmly. "We are not happy yet. I must know more.
How long is it since that evening in the studio?"
"About a month, darling. This is Christmas week. To-morrow will be
Christmas Eve."
Ronnie considered this in silence.
Then: "Let's walk up and down," he said. "It ought to be too cold to sit
about in Christmas week."
She rose and they walked along the sea-front together.
Ronnie glanced behind them. The man on the seat had risen also and was
following at a little distance.
"What cheek of that chap," he said. "He seems determined to overhear
our conversation. Shall I tell him to be off?"
"No, dear; please don't," she answered hurriedly. "He cannot possibly
overhear us."
Presently she dropped her muff and stooped to pick it up. But Ronnie
turned also, and saw her make a sign to the man following them, who at
once sat down on the nearest seat.
Then poor Ronnie knew.
"I suppose he is a keeper," he said.
"Oh, no, darling! He is only a trained attendant; just a sort of valet
for you. Such a nice man and so attentive. He brushes your clothes."
"I see," said Ronnie. "Valets are quite useful people. But they do not
as a rule sit reading in the middle of the morning, on the next seat to
their master and mistress! Do they? However, if Dick is coming
to-morrow, we can discuss the valet question with him. Take my arm,
Helen. I feel a bit shaky when I walk. Now tell me--why did we come
here?"
"They thought the change of scene, the perfect quiet, and the bracing
air might do wonders for you, Ronnie."
"Who were 'they'?"
"Dr. Dick and--a friend of his."
"I see. Well, I won't bully you into telling me things you are afraid I
ought not to know. But I will tell you just how much I _do_ know. It is
all a queer sort of black dream. I absolutely can't remember _seeing_
anything, until I found myself watching the sparkle of the ripples on
the sea. But I vaguely remember _hearing_ things. There was always a
kind voice. Of course that was yours, Helen. Also there was a kind hand.
I used to try not to do anything which could hurt the kind hand. Then,
there were several strange voices; they came and went. Then there was
Mrs. Dalmain. When her voice was there I always tried to do at once what
the strange voices and the kind voice wished; because I was horribly
afraid of being left alone with Mrs. Dalmain! Then I sometimes thought I
heard a baby cry. Wasn't that queer?"
Helen did not answer. A deep flush overspread her face, mounting from
her chin to the roots of her hair. Was Ronnie going to remember?
"The kind voice used to say: 'Take him away, Nurse'; but I am vague
about this; because I was miles down a deep well when it happened, and
the baby was up at the top. I expect I got the idea from having called
my 'cello the Infant of Prague. Did you hear me playing, on that
evening, Helen?"
"Yes, I heard."
"Was it beautiful?"
"Very beautiful, Ronnie."
"I am longing to get back to play my 'cello again."
"By-and-by, dear."
"Did I talk much of the 'cello when I was ill?"
"A good deal. But you talked chiefly of your travels and adventures;
such weird things, that the doctors often thought they were a part of
your delirium. But I found them all clearly explained in your
manuscript. I hope you won't mind, Ronnie. They asked me to glance
through it, in order to see whether anything to be found there threw
light on your illness. But of course you know, dearest, I could not do
that. I never 'glanced through' any manuscript of yours yet. Either I do
not touch them at all, or I read them carefully every word. I read this
carefully."
"Is it all right?"
"Ronnie, it is magnificent! Quite the best thing you have done yet. Such
brilliant descriptive writing. Even in the midst of my terrible anxiety,
I used to be carried right away from all my surroundings. Of course I do
not yet know the end; but when you are able to work again we can talk it
all over, and you will tell me."
His sad face brightened. A look of real gladness came into it; the first
she had seen for so long.
"I am glad it is all right," he said, simply. "I thought it was. I am
glad I am not altogether a rotter."
After that they walked on in silence. His last remark had been so
unexpected in its bitterness, that Helen could find no words in which to
answer it.
She glanced at her watch. It was almost time for luncheon. She pointed
out their hotel.
"Come, darling; we can talk more easily indoors. We have a charming
private sitting-room, overlooking the sea."
He turned at once; but as they entered the hotel gardens he said
suddenly: "Did I talk of a Upas tree, while I was off my head?"
"Yes, Ronnie, constantly. In fact you thought you _were_ a Upas tree!"
"I _knew_ I was a Upas tree," said Ronnie.
"Why?"
"Because my wife told me so, the evening I came home. How do you spell
'Upas'?"
"U, P, A, S. Oh, Ronnie, what do you mean?"
He paused, and shading his eyes, looked away over the sunny sea to where
the vessels, from the Hook of Holland, come into port.
"Just that," he said. "Exactly that. Utterly, preposterously,
altogether, selfish. That is the Upas tree."
"Oh, Ronnie," she cried, "if you knew--"
But Ronnie had seen a bowler hat behind the hedge. He called its wearer
forward.
"Mrs. West tells me you are my valet," he said. "Kindly show me to my
room."