The Upas Tree by Florence Louisa Barclay (free ebooks for android .TXT) 📖

thing which would appeal to our joint sense of humour. But first you must answer a few more questions. Helen--where is my 'cello?"

"At home, Ronnie."

"Was it broken?"

Helen looked distressed. "No, darling, it was not injured at all. It is safely put away. Look how the sunlight sparkles on those distant ripples!"

"I have finished with the ripples thank you, darling. Helen, I know I've been desperately ill. But I'm all right now, and I want you to tell me all about it."

He saw her glance past him, at the man who sat reading on the next seat.

"Don't worry about him," he said. "He can't overhear. If you think he can, let's move on."

"No, no!" said Helen, quickly. "We are so cosy here in the sunshine. Ronnie, do you see those--"

"No, dear," he said, "I don't! At this moment I see nothing but you. And I decline to have my attention drawn any more to the exciting things to be seen on the shore at Hazelbeach in winter.... Oh, yes, I knew it was Hazelbeach! Five years ago I spent a jolly week here with some friends. We hired a little wooden hut and called it 'Buckingham Palace,' I remember."

He slipped his hand into her muff, capturing both hers.

Her look of anxiety and alarm went to his heart. He had never seen Helen frightened before; and he knew with unerring instinct that she was afraid--_of him_.

It was hard; for he was desperately tired in mind and body. To subside into passive acquiescence and watch the ripples again, would be the easier way. But he must make a fight for his newly-recovered sanity and reason, and to convince Helen in the matter seemed the first thing to be accomplished.

Her hands were shaking in her muff. He held them firmly with his.

"Darling," he said, "I know I have been very bad. I was ill in Leipzig, though I didn't know it. But Dick Cameron told me I ought not to have been going about there. I suppose since then I have been quite off my head. But, oh, Helen, can't you see--- can't you _see_, darling--that I am all right again now? I can remember practically nothing which has happened since I played my 'cello in front of the mirror in the studio. But, up to that moment, I remember everything quite clearly; my travels, my manuscript, the time when I began to get feverish and lost my sleep--I can see now the very spot where I camped when I had my first nightmare. Then working night and day on board ship, then Leipzig, the Hague, London in a fog; then home--to you. Helen, it has all come back. Can't you realise that the clouds have lifted; can't you believe, my own dear girl, that my mind is clear again? Look at the sunshine on the sea, dispelling the morning mists. _In hoc signo vinces!_ You said the path of clear shining was the way to victory. Well, I have conquered whatever it was which poisoned my brain for a while. I am absolutely myself again now. Can't you believe it, Helen?"

The tears were running down her cheeks. She looked full into his earnest eyes.

"Oh, Ronnie, you do look different! You do look your own dear self. Oh, Ronnie, my own! But Dick is coming back to-morrow. He went up to town only this morning. He will tell us what to do. Till then, don't you think we had better just talk about the sea, and the little houses, and--and how happy we are?"

"No, Helen," he said firmly. "We are not happy yet. I must know more. How long is it since that evening in the studio?"

"About a month, darling. This is Christmas week. To-morrow will be Christmas Eve."

Ronnie considered this in silence.

Then: "Let's walk up and down," he said. "It ought to be too cold to sit about in Christmas week."

She rose and they walked along the sea-front together.

Ronnie glanced behind them. The man on the seat had risen also and was following at a little distance.

"What cheek of that chap," he said. "He seems determined to overhear our conversation. Shall I tell him to be off?"

"No, dear; please don't," she answered hurriedly. "He cannot possibly overhear us."

Presently she dropped her muff and stooped to pick it up. But Ronnie turned also, and saw her make a sign to the man following them, who at once sat down on the nearest seat.

Then poor Ronnie knew.

"I suppose he is a keeper," he said.

"Oh, no, darling! He is only a trained attendant; just a sort of valet for you. Such a nice man and so attentive. He brushes your clothes."

"I see," said Ronnie. "Valets are quite useful people. But they do not as a rule sit reading in the middle of the morning, on the next seat to their master and mistress! Do they? However, if Dick is coming to-morrow, we can discuss the valet question with him. Take my arm, Helen. I feel a bit shaky when I walk. Now tell me--why did we come here?"

"They thought the change of scene, the perfect quiet, and the bracing air might do wonders for you, Ronnie."

"Who were 'they'?"

"Dr. Dick and--a friend of his."

"I see. Well, I won't bully you into telling me things you are afraid I ought not to know. But I will tell you just how much I _do_ know. It is all a queer sort of black dream. I absolutely can't remember _seeing_ anything, until I found myself watching the sparkle of the ripples on the sea. But I vaguely remember _hearing_ things. There was always a kind voice. Of course that was yours, Helen. Also there was a kind hand. I used to try not to do anything which could hurt the kind hand. Then, there were several strange voices; they came and went. Then there was Mrs. Dalmain. When her voice was there I always tried to do at once what the strange voices and the kind voice wished; because I was horribly afraid of being left alone with Mrs. Dalmain! Then I sometimes thought I heard a baby cry. Wasn't that queer?"

Helen did not answer. A deep flush overspread her face, mounting from her chin to the roots of her hair. Was Ronnie going to remember?

"The kind voice used to say: 'Take him away, Nurse'; but I am vague about this; because I was miles down a deep well when it happened, and the baby was up at the top. I expect I got the idea from having called my 'cello the Infant of Prague. Did you hear me playing, on that evening, Helen?"

"Yes, I heard."

"Was it beautiful?"

"Very beautiful, Ronnie."

"I am longing to get back to play my 'cello again."

"By-and-by, dear."

"Did I talk much of the 'cello when I was ill?"

"A good deal. But you talked chiefly of your travels and adventures; such weird things, that the doctors often thought they were a part of your delirium. But I found them all clearly explained in your manuscript. I hope you won't mind, Ronnie. They asked me to glance through it, in order to see whether anything to be found there threw light on your illness. But of course you know, dearest, I could not do that. I never 'glanced through' any manuscript of yours yet. Either I do not touch them at all, or I read them carefully every word. I read this carefully."

"Is it all right?"

"Ronnie, it is magnificent! Quite the best thing you have done yet. Such brilliant descriptive writing. Even in the midst of my terrible anxiety, I used to be carried right away from all my surroundings. Of course I do not yet know the end; but when you are able to work again we can talk it all over, and you will tell me."

His sad face brightened. A look of real gladness came into it; the first she had seen for so long.

"I am glad it is all right," he said, simply. "I thought it was. I am glad I am not altogether a rotter."

After that they walked on in silence. His last remark had been so unexpected in its bitterness, that Helen could find no words in which to answer it.

She glanced at her watch. It was almost time for luncheon. She pointed out their hotel.

"Come, darling; we can talk more easily indoors. We have a charming private sitting-room, overlooking the sea."

He turned at once; but as they entered the hotel gardens he said suddenly: "Did I talk of a Upas tree, while I was off my head?"

"Yes, Ronnie, constantly. In fact you thought you _were_ a Upas tree!"

"I _knew_ I was a Upas tree," said Ronnie.

"Why?"

"Because my wife told me so, the evening I came home. How do you spell 'Upas'?"

"U, P, A, S. Oh, Ronnie, what do you mean?"

He paused, and shading his eyes, looked away over the sunny sea to where the vessels, from the Hook of Holland, come into port.

"Just that," he said. "Exactly that. Utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish. That is the Upas tree."

"Oh, Ronnie," she cried, "if you knew--"

But Ronnie had seen a bowler hat behind the hedge. He called its wearer forward.

"Mrs. West tells me you are my valet," he said. "Kindly show me to my room."


CHAPTER XVI


"HE _MUST_ REMEMBER"

Dick arrived very early the next morning, having to be off again by the twelve o'clock train, in order to reach that evening the place where he was due to spend Christmas.

A telegram from Helen had prepared him for a change in Ronnie, but hardly for the complete restoration of mental balance which he saw in his friend, as they hailed one another at the railway station.

Ronnie had breakfasted early, in order to meet Dick's train. He had said nothing of his plan to Helen, merely arranging his breakfast-hour overnight with the "valet."

He walked to the station alone; but, arrived there, found the "valet" on the platform.

"Thought I might be wanted, sir, to carry the doctor's bag," he explained, touching his hat. But, just as the train rounded the bend, he remarked: "Better stand back a little, sir," and took Ronnie firmly by the arm.

Ronnie could have knocked him down; but realised that this would be the surest way to find himself more than ever hedged in by precautions. So he stood back, in wrathful silence, and, as Dick's gay face appeared at the window of a third-class smoker, the "valet" loosed his hold and disappeared. It may here be recorded that this was the last time Ronnie saw him. Apparently he found it necessary to carry Dr. Dick's bag all the way back to town.

"Hullo, old chap!" cried Dick.

"Hullo, Dick!" said Ronnie. "This is better than Leipzig, old man. I'm all right. I must give you a new thermometer!"

"You shall," said Dick. "After Christmas we'll have a spree together in town and choose it. No need to tell me you 're all right, Ronnie. It's writ large on you, my boy. He who runs may read!"

"Well, I wish you'd write it large on other people," said Ronnie, as they walked out of the station.

"What do you mean?"

"Dick, I'm having