Back Aa

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

<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> <h4>AUBREY PUTS DOWN HIS FOOT</h4> Ronnie's first sensation as he returned to consciousness, was of extreme lassitude and exhaustion. His eyelids lifted heavily; he had some difficulty in realising where he was. Then he saw his 'cello, leaning against a chair; and, a moment later, Aubrey Treherne, lying back in the seat opposite, enveloped in a cloud of tobacco smoke. "Hullo, West!" said Aubrey, kindly. "You put in your half-hour quite unexpectedly. You were trying, in a sleepy fashion, to tell me how you came to purchase this fine 'cello; but you dropped off, with the tale unfinished." Ronnie looked in silence at his wife's cousin. "Are you the better for your sleep?" "I am fagged out," said Ronnie, wearily. Aubrey went to a cupboard, poured something into a glass, and handed it to Ronald. "Drink this, my boy. It will soon wake you up." Ronnie drank it. Its tint was golden, its odour, fragrant; but otherwise, for aught he knew, it might have been pure water. He sat up and took careful note of his surroundings. Then an idea seemed to strike him. He leaned forward and twanged the strings of his 'cello. They were not in tune. "Will you lend me your tuning-fork?" he said to Aubrey. But Aubrey had expected this. "Sorry," he said. "I don't possess one, just now. I gave away mine last week. You can tune your 'cello by the organ." "I don't know how to tune a 'cello," said Ronnie. "Let me show you," suggested Aubrey, with the utmost friendliness. He walked over to the organ, drew out the 'cello stop, sounded a note, then came back humming it. Then he took up the Infant and carefully tuned the four strings, talking easily meanwhile. "You see? You screw up the pegs—so. The notes are A, D, G, C." "What have you done to your lip?" said Ronald, suddenly. "Knocked it on the stove just now, as I bent to stoke it with my fingers, for fear of waking you. It bled amazingly." Aubrey produced a much-stained handkerchief. "It is curious how a tiny knock will sometimes draw as much blood as a sword-thrust. There! The Infant is in perfect tune, so far as I can tell without the bow. Do you mind if I just pass the bow across the strings? After each string is perfectly tuned to a piano or organ, you must make them vibrate together in order to get the fifths perfect. A violin or a 'cello is capable of a more complete condition of intuneness—if I may coin a word—than an organ or a piano." He took up the bow, then with careful precision sounded the strings, singly and together. The beautiful open notes of the Infant of Prague, filled the room. "There," said Aubrey, putting it back against the empty chair. "I am afraid that is all I must attempt. I only play the fiddle. I might disappoint you in your Infant if I did more than sound the open strings." Ronald passed his hand over his forehead. "When did I fall asleep?" he asked. "Just after suggesting that we should not discuss your books or your public." "Ah, I remember! Treherne, I have had the most vivid and horrid nightmares." "Then forget them," put in Aubrey, quickly. "Never recount a nightmare, when it is over. You suffer all its horrors again, in the telling. Turn your thoughts to something pleasant. When do you reach England?" "I cross by the Hook, the day after to-morrow, reaching London early the following morning. I shall go to my club, see my publisher, lunch in town, and get down home to tea." "To the moated Grange?" inquired Aubrey. "Yes, to the Grange. Helen will await me there. But why do you call it 'moated'? We do not boast a moat." Aubrey laughed. "I suppose my thoughts had run to 'Mariana.' You remember? 'He cometh not,' she said; the young woman who grew tired of waiting. They do, sometimes, you know! I believe her grange was moated. All granges should be moated; just as all old manors should be haunted. What a jolly time you and Helen must have in that lovely old place. I knew it well as a boy." "You must come and stay with us," said Ronnie, with an effort. "Thanks, dear chap. Delighted. Has Helen kept well during your absence?" "Quite well. She wrote as often as she could, but there was a beastly long time when I could get no letters. Hullo!—I say!" Ronnie stood up suddenly, the light of remembrance on his thin face, and began plunging his hands into the many pockets of his Norfolk coat. "I found a letter from Helen at the Poste Restante, here; but owing to my absorption in the Infant, I clean forgot to read it! Heaven send I haven't dropped it anywhere!" He stood with his back to the stove, hunting vaguely, but feverishly, in all his pockets. Aubrey smoked on, watching him without stirring. Aubrey was wishing that Helen could know how long her letter had remained unread, owing to the Infant of Prague. 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. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> 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. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.