Chapter 17

RONNIE FACES THE UPAS

Ronnie had walked from his wife's sitting-room, along the corridor and into the studio, in a state of stunned stupefaction.

He carried his 'cello in one hand, its case and bow, which he had picked up in the hall, in the other; but he had for the moment completely forgotten the Infant.

He leaned it against a chair, laid down the case, closed the studio door; then walked to the fireplace.

He stood looking at the great crackling logs, and into the glowing heart of the fire beneath them.

"Utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish," he repeated slowly. "That is what my wife considers me; that is as I appear to Helen. Utterly--preposterously--altogether--selfish. She is so lovely--she is so perfect! I--I have longed for her so! But _I_ am utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish!"

He put his arms upon the mantel-piece and dropped his head upon them. He felt a queer contraction in his throat, a stinging beneath his eyelids, such as he had not experienced since the days of childish mortifications and sorrows. But the instinctive manliness of him, held back the actual tears. He was debarred, even in solitude, from that form of relief.

Presently he lifted his head, took out his pocket-book, and wrote down the words, spelling each with a capital letter.

He looked long at them; then suddenly exclaimed: "U, P, A, S! Why, it is the Upas tree; the deadly, mysterious, poisonous Upas tree! I found it in the jungle. I felt ill the night I camped beneath it. I have never felt quite well since. The nightmares began on that night; and the nightmares have followed me home. This is the worst of all. Helen calls me the Upas tree--the poisoner of her content. Utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish!"

He turned on the electric lights, and walked up and down the room, with desperate, restless tread.

"Poisoning all it touches," he said. "Blasting the life of all who pass beneath its deadly foliage--U,P,A,S--Upas."

He paused before the great mirror, gazing at his own reflection.

He put his face quite close to the glass, staring into his burning eyes.

Then he struck at the reflection with his clenched fist. "Upas tree!" he snarled. "Take that, and be damned!"

He had hurt his knuckles. He walked back to the fire, rubbing them carefully with his left hand.

"Poor old chap," he said. "It _is_ hard lines! You meant well; but all the while you were a Upas tree. '_I, Helen, take thee, Upas, to be my wedded husband_.' Poor lovely Helen! What a bargain!"

He sat down in a deep basket-chair, lighted a cigarette, pushed another chair into position, exactly in front of him, with his foot; then filling it, one by one, with friends of his own and Helen's, held conversation with them.

"Quite right, my dear Mrs. Dalmain! You need not now confine yourself to _looking_ your disapproval; you can _say_ exactly what you think. You see, Helen herself has told me the worst truth of all. I am a Upas tree. She sums me up thus: U, P, A, S! You can hardly beat that, Mrs. Dalmain. In fact, you look distressed. I can see that your kind heart is sorry for me. Helen said you were a wonderful person to turn to in trouble. There is no one in the world quite like you. Well, now's your chance to prove it; for surely nobody ever came to you in more desperate trouble. If you wish to be really kind and comforting, talk to me of my wife. Say how sweet and lovely she is. Say that her arms are tender, her eyes gentle and kind. I am the thirsty traveller in the desert, who sights pure water, hastens eagerly forward, and finds--a mirage! But a deadly stream flows from the roots of the Upas--Hullo! Here comes Aubrey Treherne. Look out, Mrs. Dalmain! He owes you a grudge. Hey, presto! Vanish from the chair, or Helen's cousin will lean over, with a bleeding face, threatening to kill you with both hands!...

"Good-evening, Cousin Aubrey. How is your lip to-night? You mustn't kiss Helen again, until that lip is well. Helen will be ashamed of you for not being able to put fuel into a stove without knocking your lip. Fie, man! Poor happy Ronnie, going home to show his wife his 'cello, believed you. But the Upas tree knows! You can't deceive the Upas tree, you liar! You may as well tell Helen that you wounded your lip on a branch of her Upas tree....

"Hullo, Dick! Come in, and welcome! Sit down, old boy. I want to ask you something. Hist! Listen! That motor, which hooted in the park a moment ago, contained a policeman--so it is essential we should know whether there is any by-law in Leipzig against men, as trees, walking. Because you weren't walking about with a man, you know, but with a Upas tree. When in doubt, ask--my wife! It would have made a sensational paragraph in the papers: 'Arrest of a Upas tree, in the streets of Leipzig!' Worse than 'Arrest of the Infant of Prague.' ... Why! Where is the Infant?"

He turned and saw his 'cello, where he had placed it, leaning against a chair.

He rose, took it up, and walked over to the piano.

"A, D, G, C. 'Allowable delights grow commonplace!' What did the fiend mean? C, G, D, A. 'Courage gains desired aims.' That's better! We aimed pretty straight at his lying mouth."

He opened the piano, struck the notes, and tuned the 'cello exactly as he had seen Aubrey do.

At the first sound of the strings his mood changed. All bitterness passed out of his face. A look of youth and hope dawned in it.

He carried the 'cello back to the circle of chairs. He placed it where it had stood before; then lay back in his own seat smiling dreamily at the empty chair opposite.

"Helen," he said, "darling, I don't really play the piano, I only strum. But there is one instrument, above all others, which I have always longed to play. I have it now. I own the 'cello I have always loved and longed for; the 'cello on which I used to play a hundred years ago. Now I am going to play to you; and you will forget everything in this world, my wife, excepting that I love you."

He drew the Infant between his knees; then realised at once that his chair was too low.

Rising, he went over to a corner where, against the wall, stood a beautiful old chair which he and Helen had brought back, the winter before, from Italy. Its arms and feet of walnut wood, were carved into lions' heads and paws. Its back bore, in a medallion, the Florentine _fleur-de-lis_. The high padded seat was of embossed gold, on crimson leather.

Ronnie placed this queer old chair in the centre of the room, facing the great mirror.

Then he clicked off the electric lights, stirred the fire, and threw on a couple of fresh logs.

The flames shot up, illumining the room.