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Upas Tree, A Christmas Story for all the Year, The

<h3>CHAPTER XI</h3> <h4>THE MIRAGE</h4> 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. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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