"Possibly you have found it out already; but possibly not, as I hear he has been very seriously ill.
"The evening he was here, he was more or less queer and light-headed, but he was full of you, and of his delight in going home. I suppose this all helped to madden me. No need to explain why. You know.
"He had found a letter from you at the Poste Restante; but, rushing around to his publishers, etc., had not had time to read it.
"When he remembered it and found it in his pocket-book, he stood with his back to my stove, in great excitement, and tore it open; I sitting by.
"As he unfolded the large sheets of foreign paper, a note flew out from between them, and fell, unseen by him, to the floor.
"I put my foot on it. I gathered, from extracts he read me from the letter, that this note was of importance.
"When he found in a postscript that you mentioned an enclosure, he hunted everywhere for it; not thinking, of course, to look under my foot.
"He then concluded, on my instigation, that, after all, you had not enclosed any note.
"At the first opportunity I transferred it to my pocket, made an excuse to leave the room, and read it.
"Helen, believe me, had I known beforehand the news that note contained, I don't think I could have been such a fiend.
"But once having done it, I carried it through. I allowed your husband to go home in total ignorance of the birth of his son. It was I who put the word 'astonishing' into his telegram; and, in my letter to you, I led you to suppose I had heard the news from him.
"I don't know exactly what I expected to gain from all this. But, in a condition of mad despair, I seemed playing my very last card; and I played it for all it was worth—which apparently was not much!
"I did plenty of other devilish work that night—chiefly mental suggestion. This is the only really confessable thing.
"The letter your husband never saw, is in the enclosed envelope. He will like to have it now.
"Thus, as you see, the Word has not returned unto you void. It brings you the only reparation I can make.
"AUBREY TREHERNE."
Helen tore open the sealed envelope, and found her little pencil note, the tender outpouring to Ronnie, written three days after her baby's birth.
So Ronnie never saw it—he never knew! He came home without having the remotest idea that she had been through anything unusual in his absence. He had heard no word or hint of the birth of his little son. Yet she had called him utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish, because he had quite naturally expected her to be as interested as ever in his pursuits and pleasures.
Oh, Ronnie, Ronnie!
She flew to his room, hoping he had not yet gone out.
On the table she found a note addressed to herself.
She tore it open, read it—- then went back into the sitting-room, and pealed the bell.
"Send my maid to me at once, and the hall-porter."
They arrived together.
Helen had just written a long telegram to her housekeeper.
She spoke to the hall-porter first.
"Send off this telegram, please. Then procure the fastest motor-car you can find, to run me over to Hollymead this afternoon. We can be ready to start in half-an-hour's time."
Then she turned to her maid.
"Jeffreys, we go home for Christmas after all. Mr. West has gone on by train. We must pack as promptly as possible, and start in half-an-hour. We may perhaps get home before him. I doubt whether he can catch anything down from town before the five o'clock."
She flew to her room, pressing Ronnie's sad little note to her heart. All the world looked different! Ah, what would it be, now, to tell him of his little son! But she must get home before him. Supposing Ronnie went upstairs alone, and found the baby!
The Face In The Mirror
Ronnie caught the three o'clock train from town, at Huntingford, as the porter had predicted.
No carriage was at the station, so he had a rather long walk from Hollymead to the Grange.
It was a clear, crisp evening and freezing hard. He could feel the frost crackle under his feet, as he tramped along the country lanes.
When he came in sight of the lodge, it reminded him of an old-fashioned Christmas card; the large iron gates, their grey stone supports covered with moss and lichen and surmounted by queer rampant beasts unknown to zoology, holding in their stone claws oval shields on which were carved the ancient arms of Helen's family; the little ivy-covered house, with gabled roof and lattice-windows, firelight from within, shining golden and ruddy on the slight sprinkling of frosty snow.
As he passed in at the gate he saw the motherly figure of Mrs. Simpkins, a baby on her arm, appear at the window, lifting her hand to draw down the crimson blind. Before the blind shut in the bright interior, Ronnie caught a glimpse of three curly heads round a small Christmas-tree on the kitchen-table. Simpkins, in his shirt-sleeves, was lighting the topmost candle.
Ronnie walked on beneath the chestnuts and beeches, up the long sweep of the park drive, a dark lonely figure.
He was very tired; his heart was heavy and sad.
It had been such a cheery glimpse of home, through the lodge window, before the red blind shut it in. Simpkins was a lucky fellow. Mrs. Simpkins looked so kind and comfortable, with the baby's head nestling against her capacious bosom.
Ronnie turned to look back at the brightly-lighted cottage. The ruddy glow from the blind, fell on the snow. He wondered whether there was a Upas tree in that humble home. Surely not! A Upas tree and a Christmas-tree could hardly find place in the same home. The tree of Light and Love, would displace the tree of subtle poison.
He turned wearily from the distant light and plodded on.
Then he remembered that, in her last letter, Helen had said: "Ronnie, we will have a Christmas-tree this Christmas." Why had Helen said that? He had fully intended to ask her, but had not thought of it from that hour to this.
Possibly it was just a wish to yield to his whim in the matter. Perhaps she was planning to have all the little Simpkins kids up to the house.
Well, if Helen spent Christmas with the Dalmains, she would come in for little Geoff's Christmas-tree, which would certainly be a beauty.
He plodded heavily on. He felt extraordinarily lonely. Would Helen miss him? Hardly. You do not miss a selfish person. He would miss Helen—horribly; but then Helen was not selfish. She was quite the most unselfish person he had ever known.
He went over in his mind all the times when Helen had instantly given up a thing at his wish. Amongst others, he remembered how, on that spring morning so long ago, when he had told her of his new book and of his plan, she had been wanting to tell him something, yet he had allowed her interest to remain untold, when she threw herself heart and soul into his. He began to wonder what it could have been; and whether it would be too late to ask her now.
At last he reached the house, and felt slightly cheered to see lights and fires within. He had almost anticipated darkness.
Mrs. Blake herself opened the door, resplendent in black satin; lavender ribbons in her lace cap.
"La, sir!" she said. "Fancy you walking from the station! You must please to excuse Simpkins being out. He has some Christmasing on at the lodge, for his fam'ly."
"I know," said Ronnie. "I saw a Christmas-tree as I passed. I shall not require Simpkins. Blake, is there a fire in the studio?"
"There is, sir, a fine one, for the good of the piano. There is also a fire in the sitting-room, sir, where I will at once send in some tea."
"No, not there," said Ronnie quickly. "I will have tea in the studio."
But Mrs. Blake was firm. "That I couldn't ever, sir! Mrs. West wouldn't wish it. She thinks so much of you having tea in her sitting-room, and beside her fire; which is much more, so to say, cosy than that great unfurnished room, all looking-glass."
At mention of the mirror Ronnie shivered, and yielded. He had almost forgotten the mirror.
So he sat in his
own favourite chair, while Blake stood and poured out his first cup of tea, then left him to the utter loneliness of being in that room without Helen.
It is doubtful whether Ronnie had ever loved his wife so passionately as he loved her while he experienced, for the first time, what it was like to be without her, in the room where they had hitherto always been together.
Everything he touched, everything at which he looked, spoke of Helen; forcing upon him the consciousness of the sweetness of her presence, and the consequent hardness of her absence.
Yet he had brought this hardness on himself. She had said: "Wouldn't it be rather lovely to have tea together?" But he had answered: "I don't think I could bear it." And now he did not know how to bear the fact that she was not with him.
Then he saw the chair against which he had leaned his 'cello, and with a thrill of comfort he remembered the Infant of Prague.
How had it fared all this time, in its canvas bag? Perhaps no one had remembered even to put it back into that.
Having hastily swallowed his tea, lest Blake should arrive at the studio to inquire what had been amiss with it, Ronnie hurried down the corridor, entered the long, low room, and turned on the electric light. As before, a great log fire burned on the hearth; but he needed more light now, than mere fitful fire-gleams. He wanted to examine the Infant.
He looked round the room, and there, on a wide settee under one of the windows, lay a polished rosewood 'cello-case.
Ronnie, springing forward, bent down eagerly. The key was in the lock. He turned it, and lifted the lid.
There lay the Infant, shining and beautiful as ever, in a perfectly-fitting bed, lined with soft white velvet. The whole thing carried out exactly Ronnie's favourite description of his 'cello: "just like the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur." The open rosewood case, with its soft white lining, was the bursting bur; and within lay his beautiful Infant!
Helen had done this.
Ronnie's pleasure was largely tinged with pain. Helen, who did not like his 'cello, had done this to please him, yet was not here to see his pleasure.
Ronnie drew forth the bow from its place in the lid, opened a little nest which held the rosin, then tenderly lifted the Infant of Prague and carried it to the light.
At first sight, its shining surface appeared perfect as ever. Then, looking very closely, and knowing exactly where to look, Ronnie saw a place just above the f hole on the right, where a blow had evidently been struck deeply into the 'cello. A strip of wood, four inches long, by one inch wide, had been let in, then varnished so perfectly that the mend—probably the work of a hundred years ago—could only be seen in a good light, and by one who knew exactly where to look.
Ronnie stood with grave face gazing at the Infant.
What did it all mean?
He remembered with the utmost vividness every detail of the scene in the mirror.
Had he thought-read from his 'cello the happenings of a century before? Had it transmitted to his over-wrought brain, the scene in which it had once played so prominent a part?
Had it, before then, in the Leipzig flat, imparted to Aubrey Treherne—unconsciously to himself—an accurate mental picture of its former owner?
Ronnie mused on this, and wondered. Then the desire rose strong within him to hear once more the golden voice of the Infant, even at the risk of calling up again those ghostly phantoms of a vanished past.
He drew the Florentine chair into the centre of the room.
He took his seat on the embossed leather of crimson and gold.
He glanced at his reflection. His face was whiter than it had been five weeks ago, when he returned, deep bronzed, from Africa. His hair, too, was longer than it ought to be; though not so long as the heavy black locks of the 'cellist of that past reflection.
Ronnie's rough tweed suit and shooting boots, were a curious contrast to the satin knee-breeches, silken hose, and diamond shoe-buckles he remembered in his vision; yet his manner of holding the 'cello, assumed without conscious thought, and the positions of his knees and feet, were so precisely those of that quaint old-time figure, that Ronnie never doubted that when he raised the bow and his fingers bit into the strings, the flood of harmony would be the same.
He waited for the strong tremor to seize his wrist.
It did not come.
He sounded the four open strings, slowly, one after the other.
Yes, the tones were very pure, very rich, very clear.
Then he took courage, pressed his fingers into the finger-board, and began to play.
Alas, poor Infant of Prague!
Alas, poor born musician, who preferred doing things he had never learned to do!
The exquisite rise and fall of harmony, came not again.
Bitterly disappointed, Ronnie waited, staring into the mirror.
But a rather weary, very lonely, and exceedingly modern young man stared back at him.
At last he realised that he could no longer play the 'cello by inspiration. So he began very carefully feeling for the notes.
The Infant squeaked occasionally, and wailed a little; but on the whole it behaved very well; and, after half-an-hour's work, having found out the key which enabled him to use chiefly the open strings, Ronnie managed to play right through, very fairly in tune, "O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!"
This gave him extraordinary pleasure. It seemed such a certainty of possession, to be able to pick out all the notes for himself.
He longed that Helen might be there to hear.
The Infant of Prague grew dearer to him than ever. He was now mastering it himself, independent of the antics of an old person of a century ago, bowing away in the mirror.
He tried again; and this time he sang the words of the first verse, as he played. His really fine baritone blended well with the richness of the silver strings.
The words had occasionally to wait, suspended as it were in mid-air, while he felt about wildly for the note on the 'cello; but, once found, the note was true and good, and likely to lead more or less easily to the next.
A listener, in the corridor outside, pressed her hands to her breast, uncertain whether she felt the more inclined to laugh or to weep.
Ronnie began his verse again.
"O come … all ye … faithful … joyful and tri … tri … tri … um … phant … O come, ye, O come ye, to Beth … Beth … Beth … Be—eth—le—hem!"
He paused, exhausted by the effort of drawing Bethlehem complete, out of the complication of the Infant's four vibrating strings.
He paused, and, lifting his eyes, looked into the mirror—and saw therein the face of a woman, watching him from beside the door; a lovely face, all smiles, and tears, and tenderness.
At first he gazed, unable to believe his eyes. But, when her eyes met his, and she knew that he saw her, she moved quickly forward, kneeled down beside him, and—it was the face of his wife, all flooded with glad tenderness, which, resting against his shoulder, looked up into his.
She had spoken no word; yet at the first sight of her Ronnie knew that the cloud which had been between them, was between no longer.
"Helen," he said; "Oh, Helen!"
Unto Us A Child Is Born
Ronnie laid down his bow, and put his right arm round his wife.
He still held the precious Infant of Prague between his knees, his left hand on the ebony finger-board.
"My darling!" Helen said. "So we shall be at home for Christmas after all. How glad I am!"
He looked at her dumbly, and waited.
He felt like the prodigal, who had planned to suggest as his only possible desert, a place among the hired servants, but was so lifted into realisation of sonship by the father's welcome, that perforce he left that sentence unspoken.
So Ronnie looked at her dumbly, reading the utter love for him in her eyes.
Back came the words of his hymn, replete with fresh meaning.
"O come, all ye faithful, Joyful and triumphant!"
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They were such faithful eyes—Helen's; and now they seemed filled with triumphant joy.
"Ronnie," she said, "do you remember how I wrote to you at Leipzig, that this Christmas we would have a Christmas-tree? Did not you wonder, darling, why I said that?"
"Yes," answered Ronnie. "I thought of it this evening when I saw a Christmas-tree at the lodge. I had meant to ask you the night I reached home, but I did not remember then."
"Ah, if you had," she said, "if you only had!"
"Well?" he questioned. "Tell me now."
"Ronnie, do you remember that in that letter I said I had something to tell you, and that I enclosed a note, written some weeks before, telling you this thing?"
"Yes, dear," said Ronnie. "But you forgot to enclose the note. It was not there. I tore the envelope right open; I hunted high and low. Then we concluded you had after all considered it unimportant."
"It was all-important, Ronnie; and it was there."
"It was—where?" asked Ronnie.
"Under Aubrey's foot… . Oh, hush, darling, hush! We must not say hard things of a man who has confessed, and who is bitterly repentant. I can't tell you the whole story now; you shall hear every detail later; but he saw it fall from the letter, as you opened it. He was tempted, first, to cover it with his foot; then, to put it in his pocket; and, after he had read it, he wrote to me implying that you had told him the news it contained; so, when you arrived home, how could I possibly imagine that you did not know it?"
"Did not know what?" asked Ronnie.
She drew a folded paper from her pocket.
"My darling, this will tell you best. It is the note intended to reach you at Leipzig; it is the note which, until this afternoon, I had all along believed you to have received."
She put her note into his hand.
"I hope you will be able to read it by this light, Ronnie. I was very weak when I wrote it. I could only use pencil."
Ronnie unfolded it gravely.
The Big Book of Christmas Page 174