by A. A. Milne
At length Ronnie found the letter—a large, square foreign envelope—safely stowed away in his pocket-book, in the inner breast-pocket of his coat.
"Of course," he said. "I remember. I put it there when I was writing Zimmermann's cheque. You will excuse me if I read it straight away? There may be something requiring a wire."
"Naturally, my dear fellow; read it. Cousins need not stand on ceremony; and the Infant now being thoroughly in tune, your mind is free to spare a thought or two to Helen. Don't delay another moment. There may be a message in the letter for me."
Ronnie drew the thin sheets from the envelope in feverish haste.
As he did so, a folded note fell from among them unseen by Ronnie, and dropped to the floor close to Aubrey's foot.
Ronnie began reading; but black spots danced before his eyes, and Helen's beautiful clear writing zig-zagged up and down the page.
Presently his vision cleared a little and he read more easily.
Suddenly he laughed, a short, rather mirthless, laugh.
"What's up?" inquired Aubrey Treherne.
"Oh, nothing much; only I suppose I'm in for a lecture again! Helen says: 'Ronald'—" Ronnie lifted his eyes from the paper. "What a nuisance it is to own that kind of name. As a small boy I was always 'Ronnie' when people were pleased, and 'Ronald' if I was in for a wigging. The feeling of it sticks to you all your life."
"Of course it does," said Aubrey sympathetically. "Beastly hard lines. Well? Helen says 'Ronald'—?"
Ronnie's eyes sought the paper again; but once more the black spots danced in a wild shower. He rubbed his eyes and went on reading.
"'Ronald, I shall have something to tell you when you get home, which will make a great difference to this Christmas, and to all Christmas-times to come. I will not put it into a letter. I will wait until you are here, and I can say it.'"
"What can it be?" questioned Aubrey.
"Oh, I know," said Ronnie, unsteadily—the floor was becoming soft and sandy again. "I have heard it all before. She always thinks me extravagant at Christmas, and objects to her old people being given champagne and other seasonable good things. I have heard—heard it—all before. There was no need to write about it. And when she—when she says it, I shall jolly well tell her that a—that a—a fellow can do as he likes with his own earnings."
"I should," said Aubrey Treherne.
Ronald went on reading, in silence.
Aubrey's eye was upon the folded sheet of paper on the floor.
Suddenly Ronnie said: "Hullo! I'm to have it after all! Listen to this. 'P.S.—On second thoughts, now you are so nearly home, I would rather you knew what I have to say, before your return; so I am enclosing with this a pencil note I wrote some weeks ago. Ronnie, we will have a Christmas-tree this Christmas.' Well, I never!" said Ronnie. "That's not a very wild thing in the way of extravagance, is it? But it's a concession. I have wanted a Christmas-tree each Christmas. But Helen said you couldn't have a Christmas-tree in a home where there were no kids; it was absurd for two grownup people to give each other a Christmas-tree. Now, where is—" He began searching in the empty envelope.
With a quick stealthy movement, Aubrey put his foot upon the note.
"It is not here," said Ronnie, shaking out the thin sheets one by one, and tearing open the envelope. "She has forgotten it, after all. Well—I should think it will keep. It can hardly have been important."
"Evidently," remarked Aubrey, "third thoughts followed second thoughts. Even Helen would scarcely put a lecture on economy into a welcome-home letter."
"No, of course not," agreed Ronnie, and walked unsteadily to his chair.
Aubrey, stooping, transferred the note from beneath his foot to his pocket.
Ronald read his letter through again, then turned to Aubrey.
"Look here," he said. "I must send a wire. Helen wants to know whether I wish her to meet me in town, or whether I would rather she waited for me at home. What shall I say?"
Aubrey Treherne rose. "Think it over," he said, "while I fetch a form."
He left the room.
He was some time in finding that form.
When he returned his face was livid, his hand shook.
Ronald sat in absorbed contemplation of the Infant.
"It appears more perfect every time one sees it," he remarked, without looking at Aubrey.
Aubrey handed him a form for foreign telegrams, and a fountain pen.
"What are you going to say to—to your wife?" he asked in a low voice.
"I don't know," said Ronnie, vaguely. "What a jolly pen! What am I to do with this?"
"You are to let Helen know whether she is to meet you in town, or to wait at the Grange."
"Ah, I remember. What do you advise, Treherne? I don't seem able to make plans."
"I should say most decidedly, let her wait for you at home."
"Yes, I think so too. I shall be rushing around in town. I can get home before tea-time. How shall I word it?"
"Why not say: Owing to satisfactory news in letter, prefer to meet you quietly at home. All well."
Ronnie wrote this at Aubrey's dictation; then he paused.
"What news?" he asked, perplexed at the words he himself had written.
"Why—that Helen is quite well. Isn't that satisfactory news?"
"Oh, of course. I see. Yes."
"Then you might add: Will wire train from London."
"But I know the train now," objected Ronnie. "I have been thinking of it for weeks! I shall catch the 3 o'clock express."
"Very well, then add: Coming by 3 o'clock train. Home to tea."
Ronnie wrote it—a joyous smile on his lips and in his eyes.
"It sounds so near," he said. "After seven long months—it sounds so near!"
"Now," said Aubrey, "give it to me. I will take it out for you. I know an office where one can hand in wires at any hour."
"You are a good fellow," said Ronnie gratefully.
"And now look here," continued Aubrey. "Before I go, you must turn into bed, old chap. You need sleep more than you know. I can do a little prescribing myself. I am going to give you a dose of sleeping stuff which brought me merciful oblivion, after long nights of maddening wakefulness. You will feel another man, when you wake in the morning. But I am coming with you to the Hague. I can tend the Infant, while you go to the publishers. I will see you safely on board at the Hook, on the following evening, and next day you will be at home. After all those months alone in the long grass, you don't want any more solitary travelling. Now come to bed."
Ronnie rose unsteadily. "Aubrey," he said, "you are a most awfully good fellow. I shall tell Helen. She will—will—will be so—so grateful. I'm perfectly all right, you know; but other people seem so—so busy, and—and—so vague. You will help me to—to—to—arrest their attention. I must take the Infant to bed."
"Yes, yes," said Aubrey; "we will find a cosy place for the Infant. If Helen were here she would provide a bassinet. Don't forget that joke. It will amuse Helen. I make you a present of it. If Helen were here she would provide a bassinet and a pram for the Infant of Prague."
Ronnie laughed. "I shall tell Helen you said so." Then, carrying the 'cello, he lurched unsteadily through the doorway. The Infant's head had a narrow escape.
Aubrey Treherne sent off the telegram. He required to alter only one word.
When it reached Helen, the next morning at breakfast, it read thus: Owing to astonishing news in letter prefer to meet you quietly at home. All well. Coming by 3 o'clock train. Home to tea.—Ronald.
Helen suffered a sharp pang of disappointment. She had expected something quite different. The adjective "astonishing" seemed strangely cold and unlike Ronnie. She had thought he would say "wonderful," or "unbelievable," or "glorious."
But before she had finished her first cup of coffee, she had reasoned herself back into complete content. Ronnie, in an unusual fit of thoughtfulness, had remembered her feeling about the publicity of telegrams. She had so
often scolded him for putting "darling" and "best of love" into messages which all had to be shouted by telephone from the postal town, into the little village office which, being also the village grocery store, was a favourite rendezvous at all hours of the day for village gossips.
It was quite unusually considerate of Ronnie to curb the glowing words he must have longed to pour forth. The very effort of that curbing, had reduced him to a somewhat stilted adjective.
So Helen finished her lonely breakfast with thoughts of glad anticipation. Ronnie's return was drawing so near. Only two more breakfasts without him. At the third she would be pouring out his coffee, and hearing him comment on the excellence of Blake's hot buttered toast!
Then, with a happy heart, she went up to the nursery.
Yet—unconsciously—the pang remained.
A Friend In Need
As Aubrey Treherne, on his way back from despatching the telegram, stood in the general entrance hall, fumbling with the latch-key at the door of his own flat, a tall young man in an ulster dashed up the wide stone stairs, rapidly read the names on the various brass plates, and arrived at Aubrey's just as his door had yielded to persuasion and was admitting him into his own small passage.
"Hullo," said a very British voice. "Do you happen to be Ronald West's wife's cousin?"
Aubrey turned in the doorway, taking stock of his interlocutor. He saw a well-knit, youthful figure, a keen resourceful face, and a pair of exceedingly bright brown eyes, unwavering in the steady penetration of their regard. Already they had taken him in, from top to toe, and were looking past him in a rapid investigation of as much of his flat as could be seen from the doorway.
Aubrey was caught!
He had fully intended muffling his electric bell, and not being at home to visitors.
But this brisk young man, with an atmosphere about him of always being ten minutes ahead of time, already had one of his very muddy boots inside the door, and eagerly awaited the answer to his question; so it was useless to reply to the latter in German, and to bang the former.
Therefore: "I have that honour," replied Aubrey, with the best grace he could muster.
"Ah! Well, I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I must have a word with you; and then I am going round to spend the night with Ronnie at his hotel."
"Come in," said Aubrey, in a low voice; "but we must not talk in the passage or we shall wake him. I saw he was not fit to be alone, so I sent to the hotel for his traps, and am putting him up here. He turned in, half an hour ago, and seemed really inclined to sleep. He was almost off, when I left him."
Aubrey, closing the door, led the way to his sitting-room, where the three easy chairs were still drawn up before the stove.
"I conclude you are Dr. Cameron," said Aubrey, turning up the light, and motioning his visitor to the chair which had lately been Ronnie's.
"Yes, I am Dick Cameron, Ronnie's particular chum; and if ever he needed a particular chum, poor old chap, he does so at this moment. But I am glad he has found a friend in you, and one really able to undertake him. You did right not to leave him at the hotel; and he must not travel back to England alone."
"I have already arranged to accompany him," said Aubrey Treherne.
"Good; it will save me a journey."
Dick pulled off his ulster, threw it across the red velvet sofa, flung his cap after it, and took the proffered chair.
In his blue serge suit and gay tie, he looked like the captain of a college football team.
Aubrey, eyeing him with considerable reserve and distaste, silently took up his position in the chair opposite. He felt many years older than this peremptory young man, who appeared to consider himself master of all situations.
Dick turned his bright eyes on to the empty chair between them.
"So Ronnie has spent the evening with you?"
"He has."
"Who was the third party?"
"The third party was the Infant of Prague."
"Oh, bother that rotten Infant!" exclaimed Dr. Dick. "I came near to putting my foot through its shining tummy this morning! Still it may serve its silly use, if it takes his mind off his book, until we can get him safely home. I suppose you know, sir, that Ronald West is about as ill as a man can be? It will be touch and go whether we can get him home before the crash comes."
"I thought he seemed excited and unwell," said Aubrey. "What do you consider is the cause of his condition?"
"Well, the bother is, we can't exactly tell. But I should say he has been letting himself in for constant exposure to extreme heat by day, and to swampy dampness by night; not taking proper food; living in a whirl of excited imagination with no rational companionship to form an outlet; and, on the top of all this, contracted some malarial germ, which has put up his temperature and destroyed the power of natural sleep. This condition of brain has enabled him to work practically night and day at his manuscript, and I have no doubt he has written brilliant stuff, which an enchanted world will read by-and-by, with no notion of the price which has been paid for their pleasure and edification. But meanwhile, unless proper steps are taken to avert disaster, our friend Ronnie will be, by then, unable to understand or to enjoy his triumph."
Aubrey's lean face flushed. "I hope you are taking an exaggerated view," he said.
"I hope you understand," retorted Dr. Dick, "that I am doing nothing of the kind. I cannot tell you precisely what course the illness will run; the nuisance of these African jungle poisons is that we know precious little about them. But I have known Ronnie since he and I were at school together, and any poison goes straight to his brain. If he gets influenza, he never sneezes and snuffles like an ordinary mortal, but walks about, more or less light-headed, all day; and lies dry awake, staring at the ceiling all night."
"What do you recommend in this case?"
"Ah, there we arrive at my reason for coming to you. I don't know Ronnie's wife. I conclude you do."
"She is my first cousin. I have known her intimately all her life."
"Can you write to her to-night, and mail the letter so that it will reach her before he arrives home?"
"I have every intention of doing so."
Dick Cameron sat forward, eagerly.
"Good! It will come better from you than from a total stranger. No doubt I am known to her by name; but we have never chanced to meet. Without alarming her too much, I want you to make Ronnie's condition quite clear to her. Tell her he must be kept absolutely quiet and happy on his return; and, with as little delay as may be, she must have the best advice procurable."
"Whom would you recommend?"
"To be quite honest, I am afraid a brain specialist. But I will give you the name of a man who has also made a special study of the conditions caused by malarial fever, and exposure to tropical heat."
Dick produced a note-book, wrote down a name and address, tore out the leaf, and handed it to Aubrey.
"There! You can't do better than that. Of course it is everything that you are taking him right home. But, even so, let your letter get there first. You might have difficulty in seeing Mrs. West alone, and mischief might be done in a moment, which you would be powerless to prevent. Tell her, that above all else, she must avoid any sort of shock for him. A violent emotion of any kind would probably send him clean off his head."
"I am sure you are right, there," said Aubrey. "He suddenly became violent to-night, while we were talking about his 'cello; got up, staggered across, and struck me on the mouth."
Dr. Dick's keen eyes were instantly bent upon Aubrey Treherne in perplexed scrutiny.
Aubrey shifted uncomfortably in his seat; then rose and put fuel into the stove.
Still Dick sat silent.
When Aubrey resumed his seat, Dick spoke—slowly, as if carefully weighing every word.
"Now that is peculiar," he said. "Ronnie's mental condition is a perfectly amiable one, unless anything was said or done to cause him extreme provocation. In fact, he would not be easily provoked. He is inclined r
ather to take a maudlinly affectionate and friendly view of things and people; to be very simply, almost childishly, pleased with the last new idea. That wretched Infant of his is a case in point. I should be glad if you would tell me, sir, what happened in this room just before Ronnie hit out."
"Merely a conversation about the 'cello," replied Aubrey, hurriedly. "A perfectly simple remark of mine apparently annoyed him. But I soon pacified him. He was obviously not responsible for his actions."
"He was obviously in a frenzy of rage," remarked Dr. Dick, drily; "and he caught you a good one on the mouth. Did he apologise afterwards?"
"He fell asleep," said Aubrey, "and appeared on awaking to have absolutely forgotten the occurrence."
Dick got up, put his hands in his pockets, walked over to the organ, and, bending down, examined the stops. He whistled softly to himself as he did so.
Aubrey, meanwhile, had the uncomfortable sensation that the whole scene with Ronnie was being re-acted, with Dick Cameron as an interested spectator.
It tried Aubrey's nerves.
"I do not wish to hurry you," he suggested presently. "But if I am to post my letter to my cousin before midnight, the sooner I am able to write it, the better."
Dick turned at once and took up his ulster.
Aubrey, relieved, came forward cordially to lend him a hand.
"No, thank you," said Dr. Dick. "A man should always get into his coat unaided. In so doing, he uses certain muscles which are exercised in no other way."
He swung himself into the heavy coat, and stood before Aubrey Treherne—very tall, very grave, very determined.
"You quite understand, sir, that if you were not yourself taking Ronnie home, I should do so? And if, by any chance, you are prevented from going, just let me know, and I can be packed and ready to start home with him in a quarter of an hour."
"Very good of you," said Aubrey, "but all our plans are made. We reach the Hague to-morrow night. He requires a day there for making his translation and publishing arrangements. So we sleep at the Hague to-morrow, crossing by the Hook of Holland on the following evening. I have wired to the Hôtel des Indes for a suite. I feel sure my cousin would wish him to have the best of everything, and to be absolutely comfortable and quiet. At the Hôtel des Indes they have an excellent orchestra, and a particularly fine 'cellist. West will enjoy showing him the Infant. They can compare babies! It will keep him amused and interested all the evening."