"Whom would you recommend?"

"To be quite honest, I am afraid a brain specialist. But I will give you the name of a man who has also made a special study of the conditions caused by malarial fever, and exposure to tropical heat."

Dick produced a note-book, wrote down a name and address, tore out the leaf, and handed it to Aubrey.

"There! You can't do better than that. Of course it is everything that you are taking him right home. But, even so, let your letter get there first. You might have difficulty in seeing Mrs. West alone, and mischief might be done in a moment, which you would be powerless to prevent. Tell her, that above all else, she must avoid any sort of shock for him. A violent emotion of any kind would probably send him clean off his head."

"I am sure you are right, there," said Aubrey. "He suddenly became violent to-night, while we were talking about his 'cello; got up, staggered across, and struck me on the mouth."

Dr. Dick's keen eyes were instantly bent upon Aubrey Treherne in perplexed scrutiny.

Aubrey shifted uncomfortably in his seat; then rose and put fuel into the stove.

Still Dick sat silent.

When Aubrey resumed his seat, Dick spoke—slowly, as if carefully weighing every word.

"Now that is peculiar," he said. "Ronnie's mental condition is a perfectly amiable one, unless anything was said or done to cause him extreme provocation. In fact, he would not be easily provoked. He is inclined rather to take a maudlinly affectionate and friendly view of things and people; to be very simply, almost childishly, pleased with the last new idea. That wretched Infant of his is a case in point. I should be glad if you would tell me, sir, what happened in this room just before Ronnie hit out."

"Merely a conversation about the 'cello," replied Aubrey, hurriedly. "A perfectly simple remark of mine apparently annoyed him. But I soon pacified him. He was obviously not responsible for his actions."

"He was obviously in a frenzy of rage," remarked Dr. Dick, drily; "and he caught you a good one on the mouth. Did he apologise afterwards?"

"He fell asleep," said Aubrey, "and appeared on awaking to have absolutely forgotten the occurrence."

Dick got up, put his hands in his pockets, walked over to the organ, and, bending down, examined the stops. He whistled softly to himself as he did so.

Aubrey, meanwhile, had the uncomfortable sensation that the whole scene with Ronnie was being re-acted, with Dick Cameron as an interested spectator.

It tried Aubrey's nerves.

"I do not wish to hurry you," he suggested presently. "But if I am to post my letter to my cousin before midnight, the sooner I am able to write it, the better."

Dick turned at once and took up his ulster.

Aubrey, relieved, came forward cordially to lend him a hand.

"No, thank you," said Dr. Dick. "A man should always get into his coat unaided. In so doing, he uses certain muscles which are exercised in no other way."

He swung himself into the heavy coat, and stood before Aubrey Treherne—very tall, very grave, very determined.

"You quite understand, sir, that if you were not yourself taking Ronnie home, I should do so? And if, by any chance, you are prevented from going, just let me know, and I can be packed and ready to start home with him in a quarter of an hour."

"Very good of you," said Aubrey, "but all our plans are made. We reach the Hague to-morrow night. He requires a day there for making his translation and publishing arrangements. So we sleep at the Hague to-morrow, crossing by the Hook of Holland on the following evening. I have wired to the Hotel des Indes for a suite. I feel sure my cousin would wish him to have the best of everything, and to be absolutely comfortable and quiet. At the Hotel des Indes they have an excellent orchestra, and a particularly fine 'cellist. West will enjoy showing him the Infant. They can compare babies! It will keep him amused and interested all the evening."

"Good idea," agreed Dr. Dick. "But Ronnie need not come down on his wife for his hotel expenses! He is making a pot of money himself, now. You will be careful to report to Mrs. West exactly what I have said of his condition?"

"I will write immediately. As we stay a night en route, and another is taken up in crossing, my cousin should receive my letter twenty-four hours before our arrival."

"Impress upon her," said Dr. Dick, earnestly, "how dangerous any mental shock might be."

"Do you fear brain fever?" questioned Aubrey.

Dick laughed. "Brain fever is a popular fiction," he said. "It is not a term admitted by the faculty. If you mean meningitis—no, I trust not. But probably temporary loss of memory, and a complete upsetting of mental control; with a possible impairing, for a considerable time, of his brilliant mental powers."

"In other words, my cousin's husband is threatened with insanity."

"Lor, no!" exclaimed Dick, with vehemence. "How easily you good people hand a fellow-creature over to that darkest of all fates! Ronnie's condition is brought about by temporary circumstances which are not in the least likely to have permanent results. He has always had the eccentricity of genius; but, since his genius has been recognised, people have ceased to consider him eccentric. Now I must be off. But I will see him first. Will you show me his room?" "He is asleep," objected Aubrey. "Is it not a pity to disturb him?"

"I doubt his being asleep," replied Dick. "But if he is, we shall not wake him."

He stepped into the passage, his attitude one of uncompromising determination.

Aubrey Treherne opened the door of Ronnie's room. It was in darkness. He stepped back into the passage, lighted a candle, handed it to Dick Cameron, and they entered quietly together.

Ronnie lay on his back, sleeping heavily. His eyes were partly open, his face flushed, his breathing rapid. One arm was flung out toward a chair beside the bed, on which lay his pocket-book, his watch, and a small leather miniature-case containing a portrait of Helen. This lay open upon the watch, having evidently fallen from his fingers. A candle had burned down into the socket, and spluttered itself out.

Dick picked up the miniature, held it close to the light of his own candle, and examined it critically.

"He certainly went in for beauty," he remarked in a low voice to Aubrey Treherne, as he laid the miniature beside the pocket-book. "Of course Ronnie would. But it is also a noble face—a face one could altogether trust. Ronnie will be in safe hands when once you get him home."

Aubrey's smile, in the flare of the candle, was the grin of a hungry wolf. He made no reply.

Dr. Dick, watch in hand, stood silently beside the bed, counting the rapid respiration of his friend. Then he turned, took up an empty tumbler from the table behind him, smelt it, and looked at Aubrey Treherne.

"I thought so," he said. "You meant well, no doubt. But don't do it again. Drugs to produce sleep may occasionally be necessary, but should only be given under careful medical supervision. Personally, I am inclined to think that any sort of artificial sleep does more harm to a delicately poised brain, than insomnia. However, opinions differ. But there is no question that your experiment of to-night must not be repeated. I have given him stuff to take during his homeward journey which will tend to calm him, lessen the fever, and clear his mind. See that he takes it."

Young Dick Cameron walked out of Ronnie's room, blew out the candle he carried, and replaced the candlestick on a little ornamental bracket.

Aubrey followed, inwardly fuming.

If Dick had been at the top of the tree, the first opinion procurable from Harley Street, W., his manner could hardly have been more authoritative, his instructions more peremptory.

"Upstart!" said Aubrey to himself. "Insolent Jackanapes!"

When Dick Cameron reached the outer door his cap was on the back of his head, his hands were thrust deep into his coat pockets.

"Good-evening," he said. "Excuse my long intrusion. I shall be immensely obliged if you will let me have a wire reporting your safe arrival, and a letter, later on, with details as to Ronnie's state. I put my address on the paper I gave you just now, with the name of the man Mrs. West must call in."

Dick crossed the great entrance-hall, and ran lightly down the stone steps.

Aubrey heard the street door close behind him.

Then he shut and double locked his own flat.

"Upstart!" he said. "Jackanapes! Insolent fool!"

It is sometimes consoling to call people that which you know they are not, yet heartily wish they were.

Aubrey entered his sitting-room. He wanted an immediate vent for his ill-humour and sense of impotent mortification.

The leaf from Dick's note-book lay on the table.

Aubrey took it up, opened the iron door of the stove, and thrust the leaf into the very heart of the fire.



CHAPTER VIII

PARADISE LOST

Aubrey Treherne sat at his writing-table, his head buried in his hands.

Before him lay the closely-written sheets of his letter to Helen; beside them her pencil note which had fallen, unnoticed by Ronnie, from her letter to him.

Presently Aubrey lifted his head. His face bore traces of the anguish of soul through which he had been passing.

A man who has yielded himself to unrestrained wrong-doing, suffers with a sharpness of cold misery unknown to the brave true heart, however hard or lonely may be his honourable way.

Before finally reading his own letter to Helen, Aubrey read again her pathetic note to her husband.

"Ronnie, my own!

"Excuse pencil and bad writing. Nurse has propped me up in bed, but not so high as I should like.

"Darling, I am not ill, only rather weak, and very, very happy.

"Ronnie, I must write to you on this first day of being allowed a pencil, though I shall not, of course, yet send the letter. In fact, I daresay I shall keep it, and give it to you by-and-by. But you will like to feel that I wrote at once.

"Darling, how shall I tell you? Beside me, in your empty place, as I write, lies your little son—our own baby-boy, Ronnie!

"He came three days ago.

"Oh, Ronnie, it is so wonderful! He is so like you; though his tiny fingers are all pink and crinkled, and his palms are like little sea-shells. But he is going to have your artistic hands. When I cuddle them against my neck, the awful longing and loneliness of these past months seem wiped out. But only because he is yours, darling, and because I know you are soon coming back to him and to me.

"I could not tell you before you went, because I know you would have felt obliged to give up going, and your book is so important; and I have not told you since, because you must not have anything to worry you while so far away. Also I was glad to bear it alone, and to save you the hard part. One soon forgets the hardness, in the joy.

"Jane was with me.

"We are sending no announcement to the papers, for fear you should see it on the way home. Very few people know.

"Our little son will be six weeks old, when you get back. I shall be quite strong again.

"I hope you will be able to read this tiny writing. Nurse would only give me one sheet of paper!

"His eyes are blue. His little mouth is just like yours. I kiss it, but it doesn't kiss back! He is a darling, Ronnie, but—he isn't you!

"Come back soon, to your more than ever loving wife,

"HELEN.

"Yes, the smudgy places are tears, but only because I am rather weak, and so happy."

Crossing the first page came a short postscript, in firmer hand-writing:

"After all I am sending this to Leipzig. I daren't not tell you before you arrive. I sometimes feel as if I had done something wrong! Tell me, directly you take me in your arms, that I did right, and that you are glad. I am down, as usual, now, and baby is quite well."

Aubrey's hands shook as he folded the thin paper, opened a drawer, pushed the letter far into it, and locked the drawer.

Then, with set face, he turned to his own letter to Ronald West's wife.

"My own Beloved—

"Yes, I call you so still, because you were mine, and are mine. You threw me over, giving me no chance to prove that my love for you had made me worthy—that I would have been worthy. You sent me into outer darkness, where there was wailing and gnashing of teeth; where the worm of remorse dies—never. But, through it all, I loved you still. I love you to-night, as I never loved you before. The whole world is nothing to me, excepting as the place on which you walk.

"I have seen the man—- the selfish, self-absorbed fool—on whom you threw yourself away, six months after you had cast me adrift. At this moment he is my guest, snoring in an adjoining room while I sit up writing to you.

"He has spent the evening talking of nothing but himself, his journey, his wonderful book—the strongest thing he has done yet, etc., etc., etc.; till I could have risen up and strangled him with my two hands. Oh, Helen—my lovely one—he is altogether unworthy of you! I saw a letter of yours long ago, in which you said he was like a young sun-god. Handsome he is, I admit. He says he has never felt fitter in his life, and he looks it. But surely a woman wants more than mere vitality and vigour and outward beauty of appearance? Heart—he has none. The wonderful news in your letter has left him unmoved. He thinks more of a 'cello he has just bought than he does of your little son. When I remonstrated with him, he rose up and struck me on the mouth. But I forgave him for your sake, and he now sleeps under my roof.

"Helen, he must have disappointed you over and over again. He will continue to disappoint you.

"Helen, you loved me once; and when a woman loves once, she loves for always.

"Helen, if he could leave you alone during seven months, in order to get local scenery for a wretched manuscript, he will leave you again, and again, and yet again. He married you for your money; he has practically admitted it to me; but now that he is making a yearly income larger than your own, he has no more use for you.

"Oh, my beloved—my queen—my only Love—don't stay with a man who is altogether unworthy of you! If a man disappoints a woman she has a right to leave him. He is not what she believed him to be; that fact sets her free. If you had found out, afterwards, that he was already married to another, would you not have left him? Well, he was already wedded to himself and to his career. He had no whole-hearted devotion to give to you.

"Helen, don't wait for his return. Directly you get this come out here to me. Bring your little son and his nurse. My flat will be absolutely at your disposal. I can sleep elsewhere; and I swear to you I will never stay one moment after you have bid me go. As soon as West has set you legally free, we can marry and travel abroad for a couple of years; then, when the whole thing has blown over, go back to live in the old house so dear to us both.

"Helen, you will have twenty-four hours in which to get away before he returns. But even if you decide to await his return, it will not be too late. His utter self-absorption must give you a final disillusion.

"See if his first words to you are not about his cursed 'cello, rather than about his child and yours.

"If so, treat him with the silent contempt he deserves, and come at once to the man who won you first and to whom you have always belonged; come, where tenderest consideration and the worship of a lifetime await you.

"Yours till death—- and after,

"AUBREY TREHERNE."



CHAPTER IX

THE PINNACLE OF THE TEMPLE

Aubrey's letter fell upon Helen as a crushing, stunning blow.

At first her womanhood reeled beneath it.

"What have I been—what have I done," she cried, "that a man dares to write thus to me?"

Then her wifehood rose up in arms as she thought of Ronnie's gay, boyish trust in her; their happy life together; his joyous love and laughter.

She clenched her hands.

"I could kill Aubrey Treherne!" she said.

Then her motherhood arose; and bowing her proud head, she burst into a passion of tears.

At length she stood up and walked over to the window.

"It will be bad for my little son if I weep," she said, and smiled through her tears.

The trees were leafless, the garden beds empty. The park looked sodden, dank and cheerless. Summer was long dead and over, yet frosts had not begun, bringing suggestions of mistletoe and holly.

But the mists were lifting, fading in white wreaths from off the grass; and, at that moment, the wintry sun, bursting through the November clouds, shone on the diamond panes, illumining the cross and the motto beneath it.

"In hoc vince!" murmured Helen. "As I told my own dear boy, the path of clear shining is the way to victory. In hoc signo vinces! I will take this gleam of sunlight as a token of triumph. By the help of God, I will write such an answer to Aubrey as shall lead him to overcome his evil desires, and bring his dark soul out into the light of repentance and confession."

The same post had brought her a short letter from Ronnie, written immediately on his arrival at Leipzig, evidently before receiving hers. It was a disappointment to have nothing more. As Aubrey had got a letter through after hearing the news, Ronnie might have done the same.

But perhaps, face to face with her wonderful tidings, words had altogether failed him. He feared to spoil all he would so soon be able to say, by attempting to write.

To-morrow—the day which should bring him to her—would soon be here.

Meanwhile her reply to Aubrey must be posted to-day, and his letter consigned to the flames.

Feeling unable to go to the nursery with that letter unanswered, she sat down at once and wrote to her cousin.

"I only read your letter, Aubrey, half an hour ago. I am answering it at once, because I cannot enter the presence of my little son, with such a letter as yours still in my possession. As soon as I have answered it I shall burn it.

"I may then be able to rise above the terrible sense of shame which completely overwhelmed me at first, at the thought that any man—above all a man who knew me well—should dare to write me such a letter!

"At first my whole soul cried out in horror: 'What am I? What have I been? What have I done—that such words should be written—such a proposition made—to me?' The sin of it seemed to soil me; the burning wickedness, to brand me. I seemed parted from my husband and my child, and dragged down with you into your abyss of outer darkness.

"Then, into my despair, sacred words were whispered for my comfort. 'He was in all points tempted, like as we are, yet without sin,' and, through my shame and tears, I saw a vision of the Holy One, standing serene and kingly on the pinnacle of the temple, where, though the devil dared to whisper the fiendish suggestion: 'Cast Thyself down,' He stood His ground without a tremor—tempted, yet unsoiled.

"So—with this vision of my Lord before me—I take my stand, Aubrey Treherne, upon the very summit of the holy temple of wifehood and motherhood, and I say to you: 'Get thee gone, Satan!' You may have bowed my mind to the very dust in shame over your wicked words, but you cannot cause my womanhood to descend one step from off its throne.

"This being so, poor Aubrey, I feel able to forgive you the other great wrong, and to try to find words in which to prove to you the utter vileness of the sin, and yet to show you also the way out of your abyss of darkness and despair, into the clear shining of repentance, confession, and forgiveness.

"As regards the happenings of the past, between you and me—you state them wrongly. I did not love you, Aubrey, or I would never have sent you away. I could have forgiven anything to an honest man, who had merely failed and fallen.

"But you had lived a double life; you had deceived me all along the line. I had loved the man I thought you were—the man you had led me to believe you were. I did not love the man I found you out to be.

"I could not marry a man I did not love. Therefore, I sent you away. There was no question then of giving you, or not giving you, a chance to prove yourself worthy. I was not concerned just then with what you might eventually prove yourself. I did not love you; therefore, I could not wed you. Though, as a side issue, it is only fair to point out—if you wish to stand upon your possible merits—that this letter, written four years later, confirms my then estimate of your true character.

"Aubrey, I cannot discuss my husband with you; nor can I bring myself to allude to the subject of my relations with him, or his with me.

"To defend him to you would be to degrade him in all honest eyes.

"To enlarge upon my love for him, would be like pouring crystal water into a stagnant polluted pool, in order to prove how pure was the fountain from which that water flowed. Nothing could be gained by such a proceeding. Pouring samples of its purity into the tainted waters of the pool, would neither prove the former, nor cleanse the latter.

"But, in order to free my own mind from the poison of your suggestions and the shame of the fact that they were made to me, I must answer, in the abstract, one statement in your letter. Please understand that I answer it completely in the abstract. You have dared to apply it to my husband and to me. I do not admit that it applies. But, even if it did, I should not let it pass unchallenged. I break a lance with you, Aubrey Treherne, and with all men of your way of thinking, on behalf of every true wife and mother in Christendom!

"You say, that if a man has disappointed his wife, she has a right to leave him; the fact of that disappointment sets her free?

"I say to you, in answer: when a woman loves a man enough to wed him, he becomes to her as her life—her very self.

"I often fail, and fall, and disappoint myself. I do not thereupon immediately feel free to commit suicide. I face my failure, resolve to do better, and take up my life again, as bravely as may be, on higher lines.

"If a woman leaves her husband she commits moral suicide. By virtue of his union with her, he is as her own self. If disappointment and disillusion come to her through him, she must face them as she does when they come through herself. She must be patient, faithful, understanding, tender; helping him, as she would help herself, to start afresh on higher ground; once more, with a holy courage, facing life bravely.

"This is my answer—every true woman's answer—to the subtle suggestions of your letter.

"I admit that often marriages turn out hopeless—impossible; mere prisons of degradation. But that is when the sacred tie is entered into for other than the essential reasons of a perfect love and mutual need; or without due consideration, 'unadvisedly, lightly, wantonly,' notwithstanding the Church's warning. Or when people have found out their mistake in time, yet lacked the required courage to break their engagement, as I broke off mine with you, Aubrey; thus saving you and myself a lifetime of regret and misery.

"Oh, cannot you see that the only real 'outer darkness' is the doing of wrong? Disappointment, loss, loneliness, remorse—all these may be hard to bear, but they can be borne in the light; they do not necessarily belong to the outer darkness.

"May I ask you, as some compensation for the pain your letter has given me, and the terrible effort this answer has cost, to bear with me if, in closing, I quote to you in full the final words of the first chapter of the first epistle of St. John? I do so with my heart full of hope and prayer for you—yes, even for you, Aubrey. Because, though my words will probably fail to influence you, God has promised that His Word shall never return unto Him void.

"'If we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.... If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'

"Oh, Aubrey, act on this! It is true.

"Your cousin, who still hopes better things of you, and who will not fail in thought and prayer,

"HELEN WEST."

Part III



CHAPTER X

RONNIE ARRIVES IN A FOG

Ronnie reached Liverpool Street Station at 8 o'clock on a foggy November morning.

After the quiet night on the steamer, the landing in darkness at Harwich, and the steady run up to town, alone in a first-class compartment, he felt momentarily confused by the noise and movement within the great city terminus.

The brilliant lights of the station, combined with the yellow fog rolling in from the various entrances; the onward rush of many feet, as hundreds of busy men and eager young women poured out of suburban trains, hurrying to the scenes which called for their energy during the whole of the coming day; the gliding in and out of trains, the passing to and fro of porters, wheeling heavy luggage; the clang of milk-cans, the hoot of taxi-cabs, and, beyond it all, the distant roar of London, awaking, and finding its way about heavily, like an angry old giant in the fog—all seemed to Ronnie to be but another of the queer nightmares which came to him now with exhausting frequency.

As a rule, he found it best to wait until they passed off. So, holding the Infant of Prague in its canvas case in one hand, and the bag containing his manuscript in the other, he stood quite still upon the platform, waiting for the roar to cease, the rush to pass by, the nightmare to be over.

Presently an Inspector who knew Ronnie walked down the platform. He paused at once, with the ready and attentive courtesy of the London railway official.

"Any luggage, Mr. West?" he asked, lifting his cap.

"No, thank you," replied Ronnie, "not to-day."

He knew he had luggage somewhere—heaps of it. But what was the good of hunting up luggage in a nightmare? Dream luggage was not worth retrieving. Besides, the more passive you are, the sooner the delusion leaves off tormenting you.

"Have you come from the Hook, sir?" inquired the inspector.

"Yes," said Ronnie. "Did you think I had come from the Eye?"

He knew it was a vile pun, but it seemed exactly the sort of thing one says in a nightmare.

The inspector laughed, and passed on; then returned, looking rather searchingly at Ronnie.

Ronnie thought it well to explain further. "As a matter of fact, my friend," he said, "I have come from Central Africa, where I have been sitting round camp-fires, in company with asps and cockatrices, and other interesting creatures. I am writing a book about it—the best thing I have done yet."

The inspector had read and enjoyed all Ronnie's books. He smiled uneasily. Asps and cockatrices sounded queer company.

"Won't you have a cup of coffee, sir, before going out into the fog?" he suggested.

"Ah—good idea!" said Ronnie; and made his way to the refreshment room.

It was empty at this early hour, and quiet. All the people with rushing feet and vaguely busy faces had breakfasted at a still earlier hour, in their own cosy homes. Their wives had made their coffee. To-morrow Helen would pour out his coffee. It seemed an almost unbelievably happy thought. How came such rapture to be connected with coffee?

He spent a minute or two in deciding at which of the many little marble tables he would sit. He never remembered being offered so large or so varied a choice at Liverpool Street Station before. You generally made a dash for the only empty table you saw, usually close to the door. That was like Hobson's choice—this or none! A stable of forty good steeds, always ready and fit for travelling, but the customer must take the horse which stood nearest to the door!

Well, to-day he had the run of the stable. Forty good marble tables! Which should he choose?

The young women behind the counter watched him with interest as he wandered about, carefully examining each table and sitting down tentatively at several. At last he chose the most central, as being the furthest removed from Hobson's choice; sat down, took the Infant out of its bag, and, screwing in its pointed foot, leaned it up against another chair at the table.

Then he found that one of the young women had come from behind the counter, and was standing at his elbow, patiently awaiting his pleasure.

He ordered a cup of coffee and a roll and butter, for himself; a glass of milk and a sponge-cake for the Infant.

Just after these were served, before he had had time to drink the steaming hot coffee, the friendly inspector arrived, accompanied by another railway official. They said they had come to make sure Ronnie had found what he wanted in the refreshment room.

Ronnie thanked them for their civility, and showed them the Infant.

They looked at it with surprise and interest; but nudged one another when they noticed the glass of milk and the sponge-cake, which Ronnie had carefully pushed across to the Infant's side of the table.

Then they saluted, and went out.

Left alone, Ronnie drank his coffee.

It instantly cleared his brain of the after-effects of the sleeping draught which Aubrey had insisted upon giving him just before the steamer sailed the night before. His surroundings ceased to appear dream-like. A great wave of happiness swept over him.

Why, he was in London again! He was almost at home! If he had let Helen meet him, she might have been sitting just opposite, at this little marble table!

He looked across and saw the unconscious Infant's glass of milk and sponge-cake. He drew them hurriedly towards him. He felt suddenly ashamed of them. It was possible to carry a joke too far in public. He knew Helen would say: "Don't be silly, Ronnie!"

He particularly disliked milk, and was not fond of sponge-cakes; but he hastily drank the one and ate the other. He could think of no other way of disposing of them. He hoped the young women who were watching him from behind the counter, would think he enjoyed them.

Then he called for a whisky and soda, to take out the exceedingly beastly taste of the milk; but instantly remembered that old Dick had said: "Touch no alcohol," so changed the order to another cup of coffee.

This second instalment of coffee made him feel extraordinarily fit and vigorous.

He put the Infant back into its bag.

The inspector returned.

"We have found your luggage, Mr. West," he said. "If we may have your keys we can get it out for you."

"Ah, do!" said Ronnie. "Many thanks. Put it on a taxi. I shall leave it at my Club. I am afraid I was rather vague about it just now; but I had been given a sleeping draught on board, and was hardly awake when I got out of the train. I am all right now. Thanks for your help, my good fellow."

The inspector looked relieved.

Ronnie paid his bill, took up the 'cello, handed his bag to the inspector, and marched off gaily to claim his luggage.

He felt like conquering the world! The fog was lifting. The roar of the city sounded more natural. He had an excellent report to make to his publisher, heaps of "copy" to show him, and then—he was going home to Helen.

In the taxi he placed the Infant on the seat beside him.

On the whole he felt glad he had told Helen not to meet him at the station. It was so much more convenient to have plenty of room in the taxi for his 'cello. It stood so safely on the seat beside him, in its canvas bag.

As they sped westward he enjoyed looking out at the fog and mud and general wintry-aspect of London.

He did not feel cold. Aubrey had persuaded him to buy a magnificent fur-coat at the Hague. He had lived in it ever since, feeling gorgeous and cosy. Aubrey's ideas of spending money suited him better than Helen's.

His taxi glided rapidly along the greasy Embankment. Once it skidded on the tramlines, and Ronnie laid a steadying hand upon the 'cello.

The grey old Thames went rolling by—mighty, resistless, perpetually useful—right through the heart of busy London.

Ronnie thought of the well-meaning preacher who pointed out to his congregation, as an instance of the wonderful over-rulings of an All-wise Providence, the fact that large rivers flowed through great cities, and small streams through little villages! Ronnie laughed very much at the recollection of this story, and tried to remember whether he had ever told it to Helen.

Arrived at his club he shaved, tubbed, changed his clothes, and, leaving his 'cello in charge of the hall porter, sallied out with his manuscript to call upon his publisher.

In his portmanteau he had found Dr. Dick's bottle of stuff to take on the journey. Aubrey had persuaded him to pack it away. He now took a dose; then slipped the bottle into the pocket of his fur coat.

All went well, during the rest of the morning. His publisher was neither pre-occupied nor vague. He gave Ronnie a great reception and his full attention.

In the best of spirits, and looking the bronzed picture of perfect health, Ronnie returned to his club, lunched, showed his 'cello to two or three friends, then caught the three o'clock train to Hollymead.

The seven months were over. All nightmares seemed to have cleared away. He was on his way to Helen. In an hour and a half he would be with her!

He began to wonder, eagerly, what Helen would say to the Infant.

He felt quite sure that as soon as he got the bow in his hand, and the 'cello between his knees, the Infant would have plenty to say to Helen.

He had kept his yearning to play, under strong control, so that she might be there to enjoy with him the wonderful experience of those first moments.

As the train slowed up for Hollymead, and the signal lights of the little wayside station appeared, Ronnie took the last dose of Dick's physic, and threw the bottle under the seat.



CHAPTER XI

THE MIRAGE

Helen awaited in her sitting-room the return of the carriage.

It had been a great effort to let it go to the station without her. In fact she had ordered it to the front door, and put on her hat and coat in readiness.

But at the last minute it had seemed impossible to meet Ronnie on a railway platform.

So she sent the brougham off without her, went upstairs, put on a soft trailing gown specially admired by Ronnie, paused at the nursery to make sure all was quiet and ready, then came down to her sitting-room, and tried to listen for a sound other than the beating of her own heart.

The room looked very home-like and cosy. A fire crackled gaily on the hearth. The winter curtains were drawn; the orange lampshades cast a soft golden light around.

The tea-table stood ready—cups and plates for two. The firelight shone on the embossed brightness of the urn and teapot.

Ronnie's favourite low chair was ready for him.

The room seemed in every detail to whisper, "Home"; and the woman who waited knew that the home within her heart, yearning to receive and welcome and hold him close, after his long, long absence from her, was more tender, more beautiful, more radiant, than outward surroundings could possibly be made.

No word save the one telegram had come from Ronnie since her letter to Leipzig. But she knew he had been desperately busy; and, with the home-coming so near, letters would have seemed to him almost impossible.

He could not know how her woman's heart had yearned to have him say at once: "I am glad, and you did right."

Her nervousness increased, as the hour for the return of the carriage drew near.

She wished she could be sure of having time to run up again to the nursery with final instructions to Nurse. Supposing baby woke, just as the carriage arrived, and the first sound Ronnie heard was the hungry wailing of his little son!

Passing into the hall, she stood listening at the foot of the stairs.

All was quiet on the upper landing.

She returned to the sitting-room, and rang the bell.

"Simpkins," she said to her butler, "listen for the carriage and be at the door when it draws up. It may arrive at any moment now. Tell Mr. West I am in here."

She sat down, determined to wait calmly; took up the paper and tried to read an article on foreign policy. It was then she discovered that her hands were trembling.

She laughed at herself, and felt better.

"Oh, what will Ronnie think of me! That I, of all people, should unexpectedly become nervous!"

She walked over to the fireplace and saw reflected in the mirror over the mantel-piece, a very lovely, but a very white, face. She did not notice the loveliness, but she marked the pallor. It was not reassuring.

She tried to put another log on to the fire, but failed to grip it firmly with the little brass tongs, and it fell upon the rug. At that moment she heard the sharp trot of the horses coming up the last sweep of the park drive.

She flung the log on to the fire with her fingers, flew to the door and set it open; then returned to the table and stood leaning against it, her hands behind her, gripping the edge, her eyes upon the doorway. Ronnie would have to walk the whole length of the room to reach her. Thus she would see him—see the love in his eyes—before her own were hidden.

She heard Simpkins cross the hall and open the door.

The next moment the horses' hoofs pounded up the drive, and she heard the crunch of the wheels coming to a standstill on the wet gravel.

A murmur from Simpkins, then Ronnie's gay, joyous voice, as he entered the house.

"In the sitting-room? Oh, thanks! Yes, take my coat. No, not this. I will put it down myself."

Then his footstep crossing the hall.

Then—Ronnie filled the doorway; tall, bronzed, radiant as ever! She had forgotten how beautiful he was. And—yes—the love in his eyes was just as she had known it would be—eager, glowing.

She never knew how he reached her; but she let go the table and held out her arms. In a moment he was in them, and his were flung around her. His lips sought hers, but her face was hidden on his breast. She felt his kisses in her hair.

"Oh, Helen!" he said. "Helen! Why did I ever go!"

She held him closer still, sobbing a little.

"Darling, we both thought it right you should go. And—you didn't know."

"No," he agreed rather vaguely, "of course I didn't know." He thought she meant that he had not known how long the parting would seem, how insistent would be the need of each other. "I should not have gone, if I had known," he added, tenderly.

"I knew you wouldn't, Ronnie. But—I was all right."

"Of course you were all right. You know, you said we were a healthy couple, so I suppose there was no need to worry or to expect anything else. Was there? All the same I did worry—sometimes."

She waited for more.

It did not come. Ronnie was kissing her hair again.

"Were you glad when you had my letter, Ronnie?" she asked, very low.

"Which letter, sweet? I was always glad of every letter."

"Why, the last—the one to Leipzig."

"Ah, of course! Yes, I was very glad. I read it in your cousin's flat. I had just been showing him—oh, Helen! That reminds me—darling, I have something to show you! Such a jolly treasure—such a surprise! I left it in the hall. Would you like me to fetch it?"

He loosed his arms and she withdrew from them, looking up into his glowing face.

"Yes, Ronnie," she said. "Why, certainly. Do fetch it."

He rushed off into the hall. He fumbled eagerly with the buckles of the canvas bag. It had never taken so long, to draw the precious Infant forth.

He held it up to the hall lights. He wanted to make sure that it was really as brown and as beautiful as it had always seemed to him.

Yes, it was as richly brown as the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur!

He walked back into the sitting-room, carrying it proudly before him.

Helen had just lighted the spirit-lamp beneath the swinging kettle on the brass stand. Her face was rather white again.

"Here it is, Helen," he said. "The most beautiful 'cello you ever saw! It is one hundred and fifty years old. It was made at Prague. I paid a hundred and fifty pounds for it."

Helen looked.

"That was a good deal to pay for a 'cello," she said, yet conscious as she spoke that—even as Peter on the Mount—she had made the remark chiefly because she "wist not what to say."

"Not a bit!" said Ronnie. "A chap in the orchestra at the Hague, with a fine 'cello of his own, told me he had never in his life handled such a beauty. He considered it a wonderful bargain."

"It is a beauty," said Helen, pouring hot water from the urn into the teapot, with a hand which trembled.

Ronnie wheeled a third chair up to the low tea-table, opposite his own particular seat, leaned his 'cello up against it, sat down, put his elbows on his knees, and glowed at it with enthusiasm.

"I knew you would say so, darling. Ever since I bought it, after choosing your organ at Zimmermann's, I have been thinking of the moment when I should show it to you; though an even greater moment is coming for us soon, Helen."

"Yes, Ronnie."

"Look how the two silver strings shine in the firelight. I call it the Infant of Prague."

"Why the 'Infant'?"

"Because it is a hundred and fifty years old; and because you have to be so careful not to bump its head, when you carry it about."

Helen put her hand to her throat.

"I think it is a foolish name for a violoncello," she said, coldly.

"Not at all," explained Ronnie. "It seems to me more appropriate every day. My 'cello is the nicest infant that ever was; does what it's told, gives no trouble, and only speaks when it's spoken to!"

Helen bent over the kettle. It was boiling. She could hear the water bubbling; the lid began making little tentative leaps. Without lifting her eyes, she made the tea.

Ronnie talked on volubly. It was so perfect to be back in his own chair; to watch Helen making tea; and to have the Infant safely there to show her.

Helen did not seem quite so much interested or so enthusiastic as he had expected.

Suddenly he remembered Aubrey's joke.

Helen at that moment was handing him his cup of tea. He took it, touching her fingers with his own as he did so; a well-remembered little sign between them, because the first time it had dawned upon Helen that Ronnie loved her, and wanted her to know it, was on a certain occasion when he had managed to touch her fingers with his, as she handed him a cup of tea.

He did so now, smiling up at her. He was so happy, that things were becoming a little dream-like again; not a nightmare—that would be impossible with Helen so near—but an exquisite dream; a dream too perfectly beautiful to be true.

"Darling," he said, "I brought the Infant home in a canvas bag. We must have a proper case made for it. Aubrey said you would probably want to put it into a bassinet! I suppose he thought your mind would be likely to run on bassinets. But the Infant always reminds me of the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur; so I intend to have a case of polished rosewood made for it, lined with white velvet."

Helen laughed, wildly.

"I have not the smallest desire, Ronald, to put your 'cello into a bassinet!" she said.

It dawned upon Ronnie that Helen was not pleased.

"It was a silly joke of Aubrey's. I told him so. I said I should tell you he said it, not I. Let's talk of something else."

He turned his eyes resolutely from the 'cello, and told her of his manuscript, of the wonderful experiences of his travels, his complete success in finding the long grass thirteen feet high, and the weird, wild setting his plot needed.

Suddenly he became conscious that Helen was not listening. She sat gazing into the fire; her expression cold and unresponsive.

Ronnie's heart stood still. Never before had he seen that look on Helen's face. Were his nightmares following him home?

For the first time in his life he had a sense of inadequacy. Helen was not pleased with him. He was not being what she wanted.

He fell miserably silent.

Helen continued to gaze into the fire.

The Infant of Prague calmly reflected the golden lamplight in the wonderful depths of its polished surface.

Suddenly an inspiration came to Ronnie. Brightness returned to his face.

He stood up.

"Darling," he said, "I told you that an even greater moment was coming for us."

She rose also, and faced him, expectant.

He put out his hand and lifted the Infant.

"Helen, let's go to the studio, where I first told you I felt sure I could play a 'cello. We will sit there in the firelight as we did on that last evening, seven months ago, and you shall hear me make the Infant sing, for the very first time."

Then the young motherhood in Helen, arose and took her by the throat.

"Ronald!" she said. "You are utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish! I am ashamed of you!"

They faced each other across the table.

Every emotion of which the human soul is capable, passed over Ronnie's countenance—perplexity, amazement, anger, fury; grief, horror, dismay.

She saw them come and go, and come again; then, finally, resolve into a look of indignant misery.

At last he spoke.

"If that is your opinion, Helen," he said, "it is a pity I ever returned from the African jungle. Out there I could have found a woman who would at least have given me a welcome home."

Then his face flamed into sudden fury. He seized the cup from which he had been drinking, and flung up his hand above his head. His upper lip curled back from his teeth, in an angry snarl.

Helen gazed at him, petrified with terror.

His eyes met hers, and he saw the horror in them. Instantly, the anger died out of his. He lowered his hand, carefully examined the pattern on the cup, then replaced it gently in the saucer.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I ought not to have said that—about another woman. There is but one woman for me; and, welcome or no welcome, there is but one home."

Then he turned from her, slowly, deliberately, taking his 'cello with him. He left the room, without looking back. She heard him cross the hall, pause as if to pick up something there; then pass down the corridor leading to the studio.

Listening intently, she heard the door of the studio close; not with a bang—Ronnie had banged doors before now—but with a quiet irrevocability which seemed to shut her out, completely and altogether.

Sinking into the chair in which she had awaited his coming with so much eagerness of anticipation, Helen broke into an uncontrollable paroxysm of weeping.



CHAPTER XII

A FRIEND IN DEED

Precisely how long she remained alone in her sitting-room, Helen never knew; but it cannot have been the long hours it seemed, seeing that Simpkins did not appear to fetch the tea-tray, nor did Nurse send down any message from the nursery.

Helen had wept herself into the calm of exhaustion, and was trying to decide what her next move should be, when the hoot of a motor sounded in the park. In another moment she heard it panting at the door. Then the bell pealed.

With the unfailing instinct of her kind, to hide private grief and show a brave front to the world, Helen flew to the mirror, smoothed her tumbled hair, put away her damp handkerchief; and, standing calmly beside the mantel-piece, one foot on the fender, awaited her unexpected visitor.

She heard voices in the hall, then Simpkins opened the door and tried to make an announcement, but some unseen force from behind whirled him away, and a broad-shouldered young man in an ulster, travel-stained and dishevelled, appeared in his stead, shut the door upon Simpkins, and strode into the lamplight, his cloth cap still on the back of his head, his keen dark eyes searching Helen's face eagerly.

His cap came off before he spoke to her; but, with his thick, short-cropped hair standing on end, a bare head only added to the wildness of his appearance.

He stopped when he reached the tea-table.

"Where's Ronnie?" he said, and he spoke as if he had been running for many miles.

"My husband is in the studio," replied Helen, with gentle dignity.

"What's he doing?"

"I believe he is playing his 'cello."

"Oh, lor! That wretched Infant! Is he all right?"

"So far as I know."

"What time did he get here?"

"At half-past four."

The dishevelled young man glanced at the clock.

"Oh, lor!" he said again. "To think I've travelled night and day and raced down from town in a motor to get here first, and he beat me by an hour and a half! However, if he's all right, no harm's done."

He dropped into Ronnie's chair, and rumpled his hair still further with his hands.

"I must try to explain," he said.

Then he lifted a rather white, very grubby face to Helen's. His lips twitched.

"I'm dry," he said; and dropped his face into his hands.

Helen rang the bell.

"Bring whisky and soda at once," she ordered, the instant Simpkins appeared in the doorway.

Then she crossed over, and laid her hand lightly on her visitor's broad shoulder.

"Don't try to explain," she said kindly, "until you have had something. I am sure I know who you are. You appear in all sorts of cricket and football groups in Ronnie's dressing-room. You are Ronnie's special chum, Dick Cameron."

Dick did not lift his head. As a matter of fact, at that moment he could not. But, though his throat contracted, so that speech became impossible, in his heart he was saying: "What a woman! Lor, what a woman! Ninety-nine out of a hundred would have offered me tea—and tea that had stood an hour; and the hundredth would have sent for a policeman! But she jumps instantly to whisky and soda; and then walks across and makes me feel at home. Eh, well! We shall save old Ronnie between us."

She administered the whisky and soda when it appeared; sitting gently beside him, in exceeding friendliness.

The rugged honesty of the youth appealed to her. His very griminess seemed but an earnest of his steadfast purpose, and suited her present mood of utter disillusion with the artistic and the beautiful.

Dick's look of keen alertness, his sense of forceful vigour, soon returned to him.

He stood up, surveyed himself in the glass, then turned with a rueful smile to Helen.

"It was both kind and brave of you, Mrs. West," he said, "not to send for a policeman."

Helen laughed. "I think I know an honest man when I see him, Dr. Dick. You must let me use the name by which I have always heard of you. Now, can you explain more fully?"

"Certainly," said Dick, getting out of his ulster, and sitting down. "But I must begin by asking a few more questions. Did you get your cousin's letter yesterday morning? It was absolutely essential you should receive it before Ronnie reached home. I hoped you would act upon it at once."

Helen gazed at him, aghast.

"I did receive my cousin's letter," she said.

"Was it quite explicit, Mrs. West?"

"It was absolutely explicit."

"Ah! Then on that point I admit I have wronged him. But you must excuse me if I say that I am inclined to consider your cousin a liar and a scoundrel."

Helen's face was white and stern. "I am afraid I have long known him to be both, Dr. Dick."

"Then you will not wonder that when I found he was not keeping his word to me, and bringing Ronnie home, I dashed off in pursuit."

"Was there ever any question of his returning with my husband?"

It was Dick's turn to look perplexed.

"Of course there was. In fact, he gave me his word in the matter. I mistrusted him, however, and the more I thought it over, the more uneasy I grew. Yesterday morning, the day he was to have crossed with Ronnie, I called at his flat and found he was expected back there to-day. I should dearly have liked to wait and wring his neck on arrival, but naturally Ronnie's welfare came first. I could not catch the night boat at the Hague, but I dashed off via Brussels, crossed from Boulogne this morning, reached London forty minutes too late for the 3 o'clock train to Hollymead. There was no other until five, and that a slow one. So I taxied off to a man I know in town who owns several cars, borrowed his fastest, and raced down here, forty miles an hour. Even then I got here too late. However, no harm has been done. But you will understand that prompt action was necessary. What on earth was your cousin's little game?"

"It is quite inexplicable to me," said Helen, slowly, "that you should have any knowledge of my cousin's letter. Also, you have obviously been prompt, but I have not the faintest idea why prompt action was necessary."

"Didn't your cousin give you my message?"

"Your name was not mentioned in his letter."

"Did he tell you of Ronnie's critical condition?"

"He said Ronnie told him he had never felt fitter in his life, and added that he looked it."

Dick leapt to his feet, walked over to the window, and muffled a few remarks about Aubrey Treherne, in the curtains. Nevertheless Helen heard them.

"Is—Ronnie—ill?" she asked, with trembling lips.

Dick came back.

"Ronnie is desperately ill, Mrs. West. But, now he is safely at home, within easy reach of the best advice, we will soon have him all right again. Don't you worry."

But "worry" scarcely expressed Helen's face of agonised dismay.

"Tell me—all," she said.

Dick sat down and told her quite clearly and simply the text of his message to her through Aubrey, explaining and amplifying it with full medical details.

"Any violent emotion, either of joy, grief or anger, would probably have disastrous results. He apparently came to blows with your cousin during the evening he spent at Leipzig. Ronnie gave him a lovely thing in the way of lips. One recalls it now with exceeding satisfaction. When I saw your cousin afterwards he appeared to have condoned it. But it may account for his subsequent behaviour. Fortunately this sort of thing—" Dick glanced about him appreciatively—"looks peaceful enough."

Helen sat in stricken silence.

"It augurs well that he was able to stand the pleasure of his home-coming," continued Dr. Dick. "He must be extraordinarily better, if you noticed nothing unusual. Possibly he slept during the night-crossing. Also, I gave him some stuff to take on the way back, intended to clear his brain and calm him generally. Did he seem to you quite normal?"

Then Helen rose and stood before him with clasped hands.

"He seemed to me quite normal," she said, "because I had no idea of anything else. But now that I know the truth, of course I realise at once that he was not so. And, oh, Dr. Dick, I had a terrible scene with Ronnie!"

Dick stood up.

"Tell me," he said.

"I told Ronnie that he was utterly, preposterously, and altogether selfish, and that I was ashamed of him."

"Whew! You certainly did not mince matters," said Dr. Dick. "What had poor old Ronnie done?"

"He had talked, from the moment of his return, of very little save the 'cello he has brought home. He had suggested that it might amuse me to put it into a bassinet. Then when at last tea was over, he proposed, as the most delightful proceeding possible, that we should adjourn to the studio, and that I should sit and listen while he made a first attempt to play his 'cello—which, by the way, he calls, the 'Infant of Prague,' explaining to me that it is the nicest infant that ever was."

"Oh, that confounded Infant!" exclaimed Dr. Dick. "I have hated it from the first! But really, Mrs. West "—he looked puzzled—"all this was no doubt enthusiasm misplaced. But then Ronnie always is a perfect infant himself, where new toys are concerned. You can hardly realise how much he has looked forward to showing you that 'cello. His behaviour also proved a decided tendency to self-absorption; but there the artistic temperament comes in, which always creates a world of its own in which it dwells content, often at the expense of duties and obligations connected with outer surroundings. We all know that this is Ronnie's principal failing. But—excuse me for saying so—it hardly deserved quite so severe an indictment from you."

Helen wrung her hands.

Suddenly Dr. Dick took them both, firmly in his.

"Why don't you tell me the truth?" he said.

Then Helen told him.

She never could remember afterwards exactly how she told him, and no one but Helen ever knew what Dr. Dick said and did. But, months later—when in her presence aspersions were being cast on Dick for his indomitable ambition, his ruthless annihilation of all who stood in his way, his utter lack of religious principle and orthodox belief—Helen, her sweet face shadowed by momentary sadness, her eyes full of pathetic remembrance, spoke up for Ronnie's chum. "He may be a bad old thing in many ways," she said; "I admit that the language he uses is calculated to make his great-aunt Louisa, of sacred memory, turn in her grave! But—he is a tower of strength in one's hour of need."

* * * * *

"No," said Dick, after a while, gazing straight before him into the fire, his chin in his hands; "I can't believe Ronnie knew it. He was just in the condition to become frantically excited by such news. He would have been desperately anxious about you; wild that you should have gone through it alone, and altogether absorbed in the idea of coming home and seeing his child. The Infant of Prague would have had its shining nose put completely out of joint. I don't believe Ronnie ever had your letter. Write to the Poste Restante at Leipzig, and you will receive it back."

"Impossible," said Helen. "He opened and read it that evening in Aubrey's flat. He told Aubrey the news, and Aubrey mentioned it in his letter to me."

Dick looked grave.

"Well then," he said, "old Ronnie is in an even worse case than I feared. I think we should go at once and look him up. I told my friend's chauffeur to wait; so, if further advice is needed to-night, we can send the car straight back to town with a message. Where is Ronnie?"

"He took his 'cello, and went off to the studio. I heard him shut the door."

"Show me the way," said Dr. Dick.

With his hand on the handle of the sitting-room door, he paused.

"I suppose you—er—feel quite able to forgive poor old Ronnie, now?" he asked.

The yearning anguish in Helen's eyes made answer enough.

They crossed the hall together; but—as they passed down the corridor leading to the studio—they stopped simultaneously, and their eyes sought one another in silent surprise and uncertainty.

The deep full tones of a 'cello, reached them where they stood; tones so rich, so plaintively sweet, so full of passion and melody, that, to the anxious listeners in the dimly lighted corridor, they gave the sense of something weird, something altogether uncanny in its power, unearthly in its beauty.

They each spoke at the same moment.

"It cannot be Ronnie," they said.

"It must be Ronnie," amended Helen. "There is no one else in the house."

"You go in," whispered Dick. "I will wait here. Call, if you want me. Don't startle him. Go in very softly. Be very—er—you know?"

Helen moved forward alone.

She laid her hand upon the handle of the studio door.

She wished the weird music within would cease for one moment, that she might feel more able to enter.

Cold shivers ran down her spine.

Try as she would, she could not connect that music with Ronnie.

Somebody else was also in the studio, of that she felt quite certain.

She nearly went back to Dick.

Then—rating herself for cowardice—she turned the handle of the door and passed in.

Dick saw her disappear.

Almost at that moment the 'cello-playing ceased; there was a crash, a cry from Helen, a silence, and then—a wild shriek from Helen, a sound holding so much of fear and of horror, that Dick shouted in reply as he dashed forward.

He found himself in a low room, oak-panelled, lighted only by the uncertain flame a log-fire. The door by which Dick had centered was to the left of the fireplace. On the wall at the farther end of the room, opposite both door and fireplace, hung an immense mirror in a massive gilt frame.

On the floor in the centre of the room lay Ronnie, unconscious, on his back. The chair upon which he had been sitting and which had gone over backwards with him, lay broken beneath him. His 'cello rested on his chest. He gripped it there, with both his hands. They fell away from it, as Dick looked at him.

Ronnie's wife knelt on the floor beside him, but she was not looking at Ronnie. She was staring, with white face and starting eyes, into the mirror. Her left arm, stretched out before her, was rigid with horror, from the shoulder to the tip of the pointing finger.

"Look, Dick!" she shrieked. "Oh, heavens! Look!"

Dick flashed up the electric light; then looked into the mirror.

He saw himself loom large, dishevelled, grimy, travel-stained. Then he saw Ronnie and the Infant in a dark heap on the floor, and the white face of Ronnie's wife, kneeling beside him with outstretched arm and eyes upon the mirror. On the other side of Ronnie, in the very centre of the scene, stood a queer old chair of Italian workmanship, the heads of lions completing its curved arms, on its carved back the fleur-de-lis of Florence, its seat of padded leather, embossed in crimson and gold.

This was all Dick saw, excepting the leaping flames of the fire beyond.

And even as he looked, Helen's arm fell to her side; he saw her turn, lift the Infant off Ronnie's breast; and, bending over him, draw his head on to her lap.

Dick turned from the mirror. The scene in the room was identical with the reflection, in all points save one. The Florentine chair was under Ronnie. It had fallen with him. Its back was broken. Not until he had lifted his friend from the floor did Dr. Dick see the panelled fleur-de-lis of Florence, nor the crimson and gold of the embossed leather seat.

As he and Helen together loosed Ronnie's collar and tie, she whispered: "Did—you—see?"

"This is no time for staring into mirrors," said Dr. Dick, crossly. "I saw that I need a good wash; and you, some sal-volatile! But we shall have plenty to do for Ronnie before we can find leisure to think of ourselves. Send a couple of men here; sturdy fellows whom you can trust. Order that car to the door; then bring me a pencil, a sheet of note-paper and an envelope. There is just one man in the world who can help us now, and we must have him here with as little delay as possible."

When Helen had left the room, Dick glanced furtively over his shoulder into the mirror.

The Italian chair, in the reflection, now lay broken on the floor!

"Hum!" said Dr. Dick. "Not bad, that—for an Infant! Precocious, I call it. We must have that 'cello re-christened the 'Demon of Prague'!"



CHAPTER XIII

RONNIE FACES THE UPAS

Ronnie had walked from his wife's sitting-room, along the corridor and into the studio, in a state of stunned stupefaction.

He carried his 'cello in one hand, its case and bow, which he had picked up in the hall, in the other; but he had for the moment completely forgotten the Infant.

He leaned it against a chair, laid down the case, closed the studio door; then walked to the fireplace.

He stood looking at the great crackling logs, and into the glowing heart of the fire beneath them.

"Utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish," he repeated slowly. "That is what my wife considers me; that is as I appear to Helen. Utterly—preposterously—altogether—selfish. She is so lovely—she is so perfect! I—I have longed for her so! But I am utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish!"

He put his arms upon the mantel-piece and dropped his head upon them. He felt a queer contraction in his throat, a stinging beneath his eyelids, such as he had not experienced since the days of childish mortifications and sorrows. But the instinctive manliness of him, held back the actual tears. He was debarred, even in solitude, from that form of relief.

Presently he lifted his head, took out his pocket-book, and wrote down the words, spelling each with a capital letter.

He looked long at them; then suddenly exclaimed: "U, P, A, S! Why, it is the Upas tree; the deadly, mysterious, poisonous Upas tree! I found it in the jungle. I felt ill the night I camped beneath it. I have never felt quite well since. The nightmares began on that night; and the nightmares have followed me home. This is the worst of all. Helen calls me the Upas tree—the poisoner of her content. Utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish!"

He turned on the electric lights, and walked up and down the room, with desperate, restless tread.

"Poisoning all it touches," he said. "Blasting the life of all who pass beneath its deadly foliage—U,P,A,S—Upas."

He paused before the great mirror, gazing at his own reflection.

He put his face quite close to the glass, staring into his burning eyes.

Then he struck at the reflection with his clenched fist. "Upas tree!" he snarled. "Take that, and be damned!"

He had hurt his knuckles. He walked back to the fire, rubbing them carefully with his left hand.

"Poor old chap," he said. "It is hard lines! You meant well; but all the while you were a Upas tree. 'I, Helen, take thee, Upas, to be my wedded husband.' Poor lovely Helen! What a bargain!"

He sat down in a deep basket-chair, lighted a cigarette, pushed another chair into position, exactly in front of him, with his foot; then filling it, one by one, with friends of his own and Helen's, held conversation with them.

"Quite right, my dear Mrs. Dalmain! You need not now confine yourself to looking your disapproval; you can say exactly what you think. You see, Helen herself has told me the worst truth of all. I am a Upas tree. She sums me up thus: U, P, A, S! You can hardly beat that, Mrs. Dalmain. In fact, you look distressed. I can see that your kind heart is sorry for me. Helen said you were a wonderful person to turn to in trouble. There is no one in the world quite like you. Well, now's your chance to prove it; for surely nobody ever came to you in more desperate trouble. If you wish to be really kind and comforting, talk to me of my wife. Say how sweet and lovely she is. Say that her arms are tender, her eyes gentle and kind. I am the thirsty traveller in the desert, who sights pure water, hastens eagerly forward, and finds—a mirage! But a deadly stream flows from the roots of the Upas—Hullo! Here comes Aubrey Treherne. Look out, Mrs. Dalmain! He owes you a grudge. Hey, presto! Vanish from the chair, or Helen's cousin will lean over, with a bleeding face, threatening to kill you with both hands!...

"Good-evening, Cousin Aubrey. How is your lip to-night? You mustn't kiss Helen again, until that lip is well. Helen will be ashamed of you for not being able to put fuel into a stove without knocking your lip. Fie, man! Poor happy Ronnie, going home to show his wife his 'cello, believed you. But the Upas tree knows! You can't deceive the Upas tree, you liar! You may as well tell Helen that you wounded your lip on a branch of her Upas tree....

"Hullo, Dick! Come in, and welcome! Sit down, old boy. I want to ask you something. Hist! Listen! That motor, which hooted in the park a moment ago, contained a policeman—so it is essential we should know whether there is any by-law in Leipzig against men, as trees, walking. Because you weren't walking about with a man, you know, but with a Upas tree. When in doubt, ask—my wife! It would have made a sensational paragraph in the papers: 'Arrest of a Upas tree, in the streets of Leipzig!' Worse than 'Arrest of the Infant of Prague.' ... Why! Where is the Infant?"

He turned and saw his 'cello, where he had placed it, leaning against a chair.

He rose, took it up, and walked over to the piano.

"A, D, G, C. 'Allowable delights grow commonplace!' What did the fiend mean? C, G, D, A. 'Courage gains desired aims.' That's better! We aimed pretty straight at his lying mouth."

He opened the piano, struck the notes, and tuned the 'cello exactly as he had seen Aubrey do.

At the first sound of the strings his mood changed. All bitterness passed out of his face. A look of youth and hope dawned in it.

He carried the 'cello back to the circle of chairs. He placed it where it had stood before; then lay back in his own seat smiling dreamily at the empty chair opposite.

"Helen," he said, "darling, I don't really play the piano, I only strum. But there is one instrument, above all others, which I have always longed to play. I have it now. I own the 'cello I have always loved and longed for; the 'cello on which I used to play a hundred years ago. Now I am going to play to you; and you will forget everything in this world, my wife, excepting that I love you."

He drew the Infant between his knees; then realised at once that his chair was too low.

Rising, he went over to a corner where, against the wall, stood a beautiful old chair which he and Helen had brought back, the winter before, from Italy. Its arms and feet of walnut wood, were carved into lions' heads and paws. Its back bore, in a medallion, the Florentine fleur-de-lis. The high padded seat was of embossed gold, on crimson leather.

Ronnie placed this queer old chair in the centre of the room, facing the great mirror.

Then he clicked off the electric lights, stirred the fire, and threw on a couple of fresh logs.

The flames shot up, illumining the room.



CHAPTER XIV

"AS IN A MIRROR"

Ronnie returned to the Florentine chair, took the 'cello between his knees, placed his thumb behind its polished neck and his fingers on the ebony finger-board. He let them glide lightly up and down the strings, making no sound. Then he raised the bow in his right hand, and slowly, softly, sounded the four open notes.

Each tone was deep and true; there was no rasp—no uneven scraping of the bow.

The log-fire burned up brightly.

He waited. A great expectation filled him.

He was remembering something he had long forgotten.

Looking straight before him at his own reflection in the mirror, he smiled to see how correctly he held the 'cello. The Infant seemed at home between his knees.

The sight of himself and the Infant thus waiting together, gave him peculiar pleasure.

The fire burned low.

His reflected figure dimmed and faded. A misty shadow hid it from his eyes. He could just see the shining of the silver strings, and the white line of his linen cuff.

Then suddenly, he forgot all else save that which he had been trying to remember.

He felt a strong tremor in his left wrist. He was gripping the neck of the 'cello. The strings were biting deep into the flesh of his finger-tips.

He raised the bow and swept it across the strings.

Low throbbing music filled the studio, and a great delight flooded Ronnie's soul.

He dared not give conscious thought to that which he was doing; he could only go on doing it.

He knew that he—he himself—was at last playing his own 'cello. Yet it seemed to him that he was merely listening, while another played.

Two logs fell together in the fire behind him.

Bright flames shot up, illumining the room.

Ronnie raised his eyes and looked into the mirror.

He saw therein reflected, the 'cello and the Italian chair; but the figure of a man sat playing, and that man was not himself; that figure was not his own.

A grave, white face, set off by straight black hair, a heavy lock of which fell over the low forehead; long white fingers gliding up and down the strings, lace ruffles falling from the wrists. The knees, gripping the 'cello, were clad in black satin breeches, black silk stockings were on the shapely legs; while on the feet, planted firmly upon the floor, gleamed diamond shoe-buckles.

Ronnie gazed at this reflection.

Each movement of the gliding bow, corresponded to the rhythm of the music now throbbing through the studio.

Ronnie played on, gazing into the mirror. The man in the mirror did not lift his eyes, nor look at Ronnie. Either they were bent upon the 'cello, or he played with them fast closed.

Ronnie dared not look down at his own hands. He could feel his fingers moving up and down the strings, as moved the fingers in the mirror. He feared he should see lace ruffles falling from his wrists, if he looked at his own hands.

The fire burned low again.

Still Ronnie played on, staring before him as he played. The music gained in volume and in beauty.

The fire burned lower. The room was nearly dark. The reflection was almost hidden.

Ronnie, straining his eyes, could see only the white line of the low square forehead.

He wished the eyes would lift and look at him, piercing the darkness of the darkening room.

Another log fell. Again flames darted upwards. Each detail in the mirror was clear once more.

The playing grew more rapid. Ronnie felt his fingers flying, yet pressing deeply as they flew.

The right foot of the figure, placed further back than the left, was slightly raised. The heel was off the floor.

Ronnie's right heel was also lifted.

Then, looking past the figure in the chair, he marked behind him, where in the reflection of the studio should have been the door, heavy black curtains hanging in sombre folds. And, even as Ronnie noticed these, they parted; and the lovely face of a woman looked in.

As Ronnie saw that face he remembered many things—things of exquisite joy, things of poignant sorrow; things inexpressible except in music, unutterable except in tone.

The 'cello sobbed, and wailed, and sang itself slowly into a minor theme; yet the passion of the minor was more subtle, sweeter far, than the triumph of the major.

The woman glided in.

Ronnie watched her. She came and softly stood behind the Florentine chair.

Apparently she made no sound. The 'cellist did not raise his eyes. He appeared totally unconscious of her presence.

The woman bent her beautiful head, observing him closely. Following her eyes, Ronnie saw a ruffle of old lace falling from the 'cellist's throat, a broad crimson ribbon crossing his breast, on which glittered a diamond star.

The woman waited.

Ronnie watched.

The 'cellist played on.

The fire burned low.

Then another log fell. Again flames darted upward.

Ronnie saw the woman lay her left hand noiselessly upon the back of the Italian chair, then slip her right behind her and take something bright, off a table covered with bright things. And, as he watched, she flung her right hand high above her head, and in it, point downwards, gleamed the sharp blade of a dagger.

Her eyes met Ronnie's in the mirror. A gleam of malicious triumph shot from them.

He knew she was about to kill the unconscious 'cellist.

His one thought was to warn and to save him. He knew no sound he made could be heard in a past century; but whatever he himself now did, he instinctively felt the 'cellist in the mirror would also do.

With a desperate effort he stopped the movement of the bow.

He had just time to see the 'cellist in the mirror also pause.

Then Ronnie dropped his bow, gripped the 'cello with both hands, and, as the swift blow fell, drew the body of the 'cello up over his breast.

Then the back of his chair seemed to give way; his feet left the floor, and he fell over backwards—down—down—down—into a never ending abyss of throbbing, palpitating, rolling blackness.

Part IV



CHAPTER XV

"THE FOG LIFTS"

When Ronnie came to himself, emerging quite suddenly from a long, confused dream, which had held many voices, many happenings over which he had exercised no control and which were too indefinite to be remembered, he found himself sitting on a seat, on the esplanade at Hazelbeach.

A crisp, wintry feeling was in the air; but the sun was brilliant, and the high ground behind, sheltered the sea-front from wind.

He was muffled in his fur coat, and felt quite warm.

The first thing he consciously noticed was the sparkling of the ripple on the calm water.

There is something particularly reviving and inspiriting about sunshine on the gaily moving sea. The effect is produced with so little apparent effort. The sun just shines; the water just moves; and lo, hosts of sparkling diamonds!

Ronnie watched it in silence for some time, before giving any sign that he actually saw it.

He was anxious carefully to take his bearings, without appearing to do so.

Helen sat beside him on the seat. She kept up a flow of conversation, in the kind, cheerful, intelligent voice in which you talk to a child who has to be kept happy and amused.

Ronnie let her go on talking in that voice, while he took his bearings.

He glanced at her, furtively, once; then turned his eyes seaward again.

Helen, also, was wearing a fur coat, and a pretty grey fur toque on her soft hair. Her face seemed thinner than it used to be; but the sea breeze and sunshine had brought a bright colour to her cheeks.

Ronnie's eyes left the ripples, and wandered cautiously up and down the shore.

The beach was deserted. No moving figures dotted the esplanade. Helen and he would have been alone, had it not been for one tiresome man who sat reading on the next seat to theirs. He looked like a superior valet or upper footman, in a bowler and a black morning coat. He was just out of earshot; but his presence prevented Ronnie from feeling himself alone with Helen, and increased the careful caution with which he took his bearings.

At last he felt the moment had arrived to stop Helen's well-meant attempts at amusing him.

The man on the other seat was a dozen yards off to the right. Helen sat quite close to him on the left. He turned his back on the other seat and looked earnestly into his wife's face.

"Helen," he said, quietly, "how did we get here?"

"We motored, darling. It isn't very far across country, though to get here by train we should have to go up to town and down again."

"When did we come?"

"Yesterday. Ronnie, do look at those funny little wooden houses just beyond us on the esplanade. They take the place of bathing-machines, or bathing-tents, in summer. They can be hired just for the morning, or you can engage one for the whole time of your visit, and furnish it comfortably. Don't you think it is quite a good idea? And people give them such grand names. I saw one called 'Woodstock,' and another 'Highcombe House.' If we took one, we should have to call it 'The Grange.'"

"Helen, you have told me all about those little huts twice already, during the last half-hour. Only, last time you had seen one called 'Runnymead,' and another called 'The Limes.' Presently, if you like, we will walk along and read all the names. It is just the kind of thing which would appeal to our joint sense of humour. But first you must answer a few more questions. Helen—where is my 'cello?"

"At home, Ronnie."

"Was it broken?"

Helen looked distressed. "No, darling, it was not injured at all. It is safely put away. Look how the sunlight sparkles on those distant ripples!"

"I have finished with the ripples thank you, darling. Helen, I know I've been desperately ill. But I'm all right now, and I want you to tell me all about it."

He saw her glance past him, at the man who sat reading on the next seat.

"Don't worry about him," he said. "He can't overhear. If you think he can, let's move on."

"No, no!" said Helen, quickly. "We are so cosy here in the sunshine. Ronnie, do you see those—"

"No, dear," he said, "I don't! At this moment I see nothing but you. And I decline to have my attention drawn any more to the exciting things to be seen on the shore at Hazelbeach in winter.... Oh, yes, I knew it was Hazelbeach! Five years ago I spent a jolly week here with some friends. We hired a little wooden hut and called it 'Buckingham Palace,' I remember."

He slipped his hand into her muff, capturing both hers.

Her look of anxiety and alarm went to his heart. He had never seen Helen frightened before; and he knew with unerring instinct that she was afraid—of him.

It was hard; for he was desperately tired in mind and body. To subside into passive acquiescence and watch the ripples again, would be the easier way. But he must make a fight for his newly-recovered sanity and reason, and to convince Helen in the matter seemed the first thing to be accomplished.

Her hands were shaking in her muff. He held them firmly with his.

"Darling," he said, "I know I have been very bad. I was ill in Leipzig, though I didn't know it. But Dick Cameron told me I ought not to have been going about there. I suppose since then I have been quite off my head. But, oh, Helen, can't you see—- can't you see, darling—that I am all right again now? I can remember practically nothing which has happened since I played my 'cello in front of the mirror in the studio. But, up to that moment, I remember everything quite clearly; my travels, my manuscript, the time when I began to get feverish and lost my sleep—I can see now the very spot where I camped when I had my first nightmare. Then working night and day on board ship, then Leipzig, the Hague, London in a fog; then home—to you. Helen, it has all come back. Can't you realise that the clouds have lifted; can't you believe, my own dear girl, that my mind is clear again? Look at the sunshine on the sea, dispelling the morning mists. In hoc signo vinces! You said the path of clear shining was the way to victory. Well, I have conquered whatever it was which poisoned my brain for a while. I am absolutely myself again now. Can't you believe it, Helen?"

The tears were running down her cheeks. She looked full into his earnest eyes.

"Oh, Ronnie, you do look different! You do look your own dear self. Oh, Ronnie, my own! But Dick is coming back to-morrow. He went up to town only this morning. He will tell us what to do. Till then, don't you think we had better just talk about the sea, and the little houses, and—and how happy we are?"

"No, Helen," he said firmly. "We are not happy yet. I must know more. How long is it since that evening in the studio?"

"About a month, darling. This is Christmas week. To-morrow will be Christmas Eve."

Ronnie considered this in silence.

Then: "Let's walk up and down," he said. "It ought to be too cold to sit about in Christmas week."

She rose and they walked along the sea-front together.

Ronnie glanced behind them. The man on the seat had risen also and was following at a little distance.

"What cheek of that chap," he said. "He seems determined to overhear our conversation. Shall I tell him to be off?"

"No, dear; please don't," she answered hurriedly. "He cannot possibly overhear us."

Presently she dropped her muff and stooped to pick it up. But Ronnie turned also, and saw her make a sign to the man following them, who at once sat down on the nearest seat.

Then poor Ronnie knew.

"I suppose he is a keeper," he said.

"Oh, no, darling! He is only a trained attendant; just a sort of valet for you. Such a nice man and so attentive. He brushes your clothes."

"I see," said Ronnie. "Valets are quite useful people. But they do not as a rule sit reading in the middle of the morning, on the next seat to their master and mistress! Do they? However, if Dick is coming to-morrow, we can discuss the valet question with him. Take my arm, Helen. I feel a bit shaky when I walk. Now tell me—why did we come here?"

"They thought the change of scene, the perfect quiet, and the bracing air might do wonders for you, Ronnie."

"Who were 'they'?"

"Dr. Dick and—a friend of his."

"I see. Well, I won't bully you into telling me things you are afraid I ought not to know. But I will tell you just how much I do know. It is all a queer sort of black dream. I absolutely can't remember seeing anything, until I found myself watching the sparkle of the ripples on the sea. But I vaguely remember hearing things. There was always a kind voice. Of course that was yours, Helen. Also there was a kind hand. I used to try not to do anything which could hurt the kind hand. Then, there were several strange voices; they came and went. Then there was Mrs. Dalmain. When her voice was there I always tried to do at once what the strange voices and the kind voice wished; because I was horribly afraid of being left alone with Mrs. Dalmain! Then I sometimes thought I heard a baby cry. Wasn't that queer?"

Helen did not answer. A deep flush overspread her face, mounting from her chin to the roots of her hair. Was Ronnie going to remember?

"The kind voice used to say: 'Take him away, Nurse'; but I am vague about this; because I was miles down a deep well when it happened, and the baby was up at the top. I expect I got the idea from having called my 'cello the Infant of Prague. Did you hear me playing, on that evening, Helen?"

"Yes, I heard."

"Was it beautiful?"

"Very beautiful, Ronnie."

"I am longing to get back to play my 'cello again."

"By-and-by, dear."

"Did I talk much of the 'cello when I was ill?"

"A good deal. But you talked chiefly of your travels and adventures; such weird things, that the doctors often thought they were a part of your delirium. But I found them all clearly explained in your manuscript. I hope you won't mind, Ronnie. They asked me to glance through it, in order to see whether anything to be found there threw light on your illness. But of course you know, dearest, I could not do that. I never 'glanced through' any manuscript of yours yet. Either I do not touch them at all, or I read them carefully every word. I read this carefully."

"Is it all right?"

"Ronnie, it is magnificent! Quite the best thing you have done yet. Such brilliant descriptive writing. Even in the midst of my terrible anxiety, I used to be carried right away from all my surroundings. Of course I do not yet know the end; but when you are able to work again we can talk it all over, and you will tell me."

His sad face brightened. A look of real gladness came into it; the first she had seen for so long.

"I am glad it is all right," he said, simply. "I thought it was. I am glad I am not altogether a rotter."

After that they walked on in silence. His last remark had been so unexpected in its bitterness, that Helen could find no words in which to answer it.

She glanced at her watch. It was almost time for luncheon. She pointed out their hotel.

"Come, darling; we can talk more easily indoors. We have a charming private sitting-room, overlooking the sea."

He turned at once; but as they entered the hotel gardens he said suddenly: "Did I talk of a Upas tree, while I was off my head?"

"Yes, Ronnie, constantly. In fact you thought you were a Upas tree!"

"I knew I was a Upas tree," said Ronnie.

"Why?"

"Because my wife told me so, the evening I came home. How do you spell 'Upas'?"