Hesba Stretton - The Ultimate Christmas Library - 100+ Authors, 200 Novels, Novellas, Stories, Poems and Carols

"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.

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.