Read Ebook: The Upas Tree: A Christmas Story for all the Year by Barclay Florence L Florence Louisa

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Ebook has 218 lines and 10088 words, and 5 pages

"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.

"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.

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