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

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.

When Ronnie came to himself, emerging quite suddenly from a long, confused dream, which had held many voices, many happenings over which he had exercised no control and which were too indefinite to be remembered, he found himself sitting on a seat, on the esplanade at Hazelbeach.

A crisp, wintry feeling was in the air; but the sun was brilliant, and the high ground behind, sheltered the sea-front from wind.

He was muffled in his fur coat, and felt quite warm.

The first thing he consciously noticed was the sparkling of the ripple on the calm water.

There is something particularly reviving and inspiriting about sunshine on the gaily moving sea. The effect is produced with so little apparent effort. The sun just shines; the water just moves; and lo, hosts of sparkling diamonds!

Ronnie watched it in silence for some time, before giving any sign that he actually saw it.

He was anxious carefully to take his bearings, without appearing to do so.

Helen sat beside him on the seat. She kept up a flow of conversation, in the kind, cheerful, intelligent voice in which you talk to a child who has to be kept happy and amused.

Ronnie let her go on talking in that voice, while he took his bearings.

He glanced at her, furtively, once; then turned his eyes seaward again.

Helen, also, was wearing a fur coat, and a pretty grey fur toque on her soft hair. Her face seemed thinner than it used to be; but the sea breeze and sunshine had brought a bright colour to her cheeks.

Ronnie's eyes left the ripples, and wandered cautiously up and down the shore.

The beach was deserted. No moving figures dotted the esplanade. Helen and he would have been alone, had it not been for one tiresome man who sat reading on the next seat to theirs. He looked like a superior valet or upper footman, in a bowler and a black morning coat. He was just out of earshot; but his presence prevented Ronnie from feeling himself alone with Helen, and increased the careful caution with which he took his bearings.

At last he felt the moment had arrived to stop Helen's well-meant attempts at amusing him.

The man on the other seat was a dozen yards off to the right. Helen sat quite close to him on the left. He turned his back on the other seat and looked earnestly into his wife's face.

"Helen," he said, quietly, "how did we get here?"

"We motored, darling. It isn't very far across country, though to get here by train we should have to go up to town and down again."

"When did we come?"

"Yesterday. Ronnie, do look at those funny little wooden houses just beyond us on the esplanade. They take the place of bathing-machines, or bathing-tents, in summer. They can be hired just for the morning, or you can engage one for the whole time of your visit, and furnish it comfortably. Don't you think it is quite a good idea? And people give them such grand names. I saw one called 'Woodstock,' and another 'Highcombe House.' If we took one, we should have to call it 'The Grange.'"

"Helen, you have told me all about those little huts twice already, during the last half-hour. Only, last time you had seen one called 'Runnymead,' and another called 'The Limes.' Presently, if you like, we will walk along and read all the names. It is just the kind of 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.