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

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<h3>CHAPTER XIV</h3> <h4>"AS IN A MIRROR"</h4> 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. <hr style="width: 45%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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