by A. A. Milne
"If a woman leaves her husband she commits moral suicide. By virtue of his union with her, he is as her own self. If disappointment and disillusion come to her through him, she must face them as she does when they come through herself. She must be patient, faithful, understanding, tender; helping him, as she would help herself, to start afresh on higher ground; once more, with a holy courage, facing life bravely.
"This is my answer—every true woman's answer—to the subtle suggestions of your letter.
"I admit that often marriages turn out hopeless—impossible; mere prisons of degradation. But that is when the sacred tie is entered into for other than the essential reasons of a perfect love and mutual need; or without due consideration, 'unadvisedly, lightly, wantonly,' notwithstanding the Church's warning. Or when people have found out their mistake in time, yet lacked the required courage to break their engagement, as I broke off mine with you, Aubrey; thus saving you and myself a lifetime of regret and misery.
"Oh, cannot you see that the only real 'outer darkness' is the doing of wrong? Disappointment, loss, loneliness, remorse—all these may be hard to bear, but they can be borne in the light; they do not necessarily belong to the outer darkness.
"May I ask you, as some compensation for the pain your letter has given me, and the terrible effort this answer has cost, to bear with me if, in closing, I quote to you in full the final words of the first chapter of the first epistle of St. John? I do so with my heart full of hope and prayer for you—yes, even for you, Aubrey. Because, though my words will probably fail to influence you, God has promised that His Word shall never return unto Him void.
"'If we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin… . If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'
"Oh, Aubrey, act on this! It is true.
"Your cousin, who still hopes better things of you, and who will not fail in thought and prayer,
"HELEN WEST."
Part III
Ronnie Arrives In A Fog
Ronnie reached Liverpool Street Station at 8 o'clock on a foggy November morning.
After the quiet night on the steamer, the landing in darkness at Harwich, and the steady run up to town, alone in a first-class compartment, he felt momentarily confused by the noise and movement within the great city terminus.
The brilliant lights of the station, combined with the yellow fog rolling in from the various entrances; the onward rush of many feet, as hundreds of busy men and eager young women poured out of suburban trains, hurrying to the scenes which called for their energy during the whole of the coming day; the gliding in and out of trains, the passing to and fro of porters, wheeling heavy luggage; the clang of milk-cans, the hoot of taxi-cabs, and, beyond it all, the distant roar of London, awaking, and finding its way about heavily, like an angry old giant in the fog—all seemed to Ronnie to be but another of the queer nightmares which came to him now with exhausting frequency.
As a rule, he found it best to wait until they passed off. So, holding the Infant of Prague in its canvas case in one hand, and the bag containing his manuscript in the other, he stood quite still upon the platform, waiting for the roar to cease, the rush to pass by, the nightmare to be over.
Presently an Inspector who knew Ronnie walked down the platform. He paused at once, with the ready and attentive courtesy of the London railway official.
"Any luggage, Mr. West?" he asked, lifting his cap.
"No, thank you," replied Ronnie, "not to-day."
He knew he had luggage somewhere—heaps of it. But what was the good of hunting up luggage in a nightmare? Dream luggage was not worth retrieving. Besides, the more passive you are, the sooner the delusion leaves off tormenting you.
"Have you come from the Hook, sir?" inquired the inspector.
"Yes," said Ronnie. "Did you think I had come from the Eye?"
He knew it was a vile pun, but it seemed exactly the sort of thing one says in a nightmare.
The inspector laughed, and passed on; then returned, looking rather searchingly at Ronnie.
Ronnie thought it well to explain further. "As a matter of fact, my friend," he said, "I have come from Central Africa, where I have been sitting round camp-fires, in company with asps and cockatrices, and other interesting creatures. I am writing a book about it—the best thing I have done yet."
The inspector had read and enjoyed all Ronnie's books. He smiled uneasily. Asps and cockatrices sounded queer company.
"Won't you have a cup of coffee, sir, before going out into the fog?" he suggested.
"Ah—good idea!" said Ronnie; and made his way to the refreshment room.
It was empty at this early hour, and quiet. All the people with rushing feet and vaguely busy faces had breakfasted at a still earlier hour, in their own cosy homes. Their wives had made their coffee. To-morrow Helen would pour out his coffee. It seemed an almost unbelievably happy thought. How came such rapture to be connected with coffee?
He spent a minute or two in deciding at which of the many little marble tables he would sit. He never remembered being offered so large or so varied a choice at Liverpool Street Station before. You generally made a dash for the only empty table you saw, usually close to the door. That was like Hobson's choice—this or none! A stable of forty good steeds, always ready and fit for travelling, but the customer must take the horse which stood nearest to the door!
Well, to-day he had the run of the stable. Forty good marble tables! Which should he choose?
The young women behind the counter watched him with interest as he wandered about, carefully examining each table and sitting down tentatively at several. At last he chose the most central, as being the furthest removed from Hobson's choice; sat down, took the Infant out of its bag, and, screwing in its pointed foot, leaned it up against another chair at the table.
Then he found that one of the young women had come from behind the counter, and was standing at his elbow, patiently awaiting his pleasure.
He ordered a cup of coffee and a roll and butter, for himself; a glass of milk and a sponge-cake for the Infant.
Just after these were served, before he had had time to drink the steaming hot coffee, the friendly inspector arrived, accompanied by another railway official. They said they had come to make sure Ronnie had found what he wanted in the refreshment room.
Ronnie thanked them for their civility, and showed them the Infant.
They looked at it with surprise and interest; but nudged one another when they noticed the glass of milk and the sponge-cake, which Ronnie had carefully pushed across to the Infant's side of the table.
Then they saluted, and went out.
Left alone, Ronnie drank his coffee.
It instantly cleared his brain of the after-effects of the sleeping draught which Aubrey had insisted upon giving him just before the steamer sailed the night before. His surroundings ceased to appear dream-like. A great wave of happiness swept over him.
Why, he was in London again! He was almost at home! If he had let Helen meet him, she might have been sitting just opposite, at this little marble table!
He looked across and saw the unconscious Infant's glass of milk and sponge-cake. He drew them hurriedly towards him. He feltsuddenly ashamed of them. It was possible to carry a joke too far in public. He knew Helen would say: "Don't be silly, Ronnie!"
He particularly disliked milk, and was not fond of sponge-cakes; but he hastily drank the one and ate the other. He could think of no other way of disposing of them. He hoped the young women who were watching him from behind the counter, would think he enjoyed them.
Then he called for a whisky and soda, to take out the exceedingly beastly taste of the milk; but instantly remembered that old Dick had said: "Touch no alcohol," so changed the order to another cup of coffee.
This second instalment of coffee made him feel extraordinarily fit and
vigorous.
He put the Infant back into its bag.
The inspector returned.
"We have found your luggage, Mr. West," he said. "If we may have your keys we can get it out for you."
"Ah, do!" said Ronnie. "Many thanks. Put it on a taxi. I shall leave it at my Club. I am afraid I was rather vague about it just now; but I had been given a sleeping draught on board, and was hardly awake when I got out of the train. I am all right now. Thanks for your help, my good fellow."
The inspector looked relieved.
Ronnie paid his bill, took up the 'cello, handed his bag to the inspector, and marched off gaily to claim his luggage.
He felt like conquering the world! The fog was lifting. The roar of the city sounded more natural. He had an excellent report to make to his publisher, heaps of "copy" to show him, and then—he was going home to Helen.
In the taxi he placed the Infant on the seat beside him.
On the whole he felt glad he had told Helen not to meet him at the station. It was so much more convenient to have plenty of room in the taxi for his 'cello. It stood so safely on the seat beside him, in its canvas bag.
As they sped westward he enjoyed looking out at the fog and mud and general wintry-aspect of London.
He did not feel cold. Aubrey had persuaded him to buy a magnificent fur-coat at the Hague. He had lived in it ever since, feeling gorgeous and cosy. Aubrey's ideas of spending money suited him better than Helen's.
His taxi glided rapidly along the greasy Embankment. Once it skidded on the tramlines, and Ronnie laid a steadying hand upon the 'cello.
The grey old Thames went rolling by—mighty, resistless, perpetually useful—right through the heart of busy London.
Ronnie thought of the well-meaning preacher who pointed out to his congregation, as an instance of the wonderful over-rulings of an All-wise Providence, the fact that large rivers flowed through great cities, and small streams through little villages! Ronnie laughed very much at the recollection of this story, and tried to remember whether he had ever told it to Helen.
Arrived at his club he shaved, tubbed, changed his clothes, and, leaving his 'cello in charge of the hall porter, sallied out with his manuscript to call upon his publisher.
In his portmanteau he had found Dr. Dick's bottle of stuff to take on the journey. Aubrey had persuaded him to pack it away. He now took a dose; then slipped the bottle into the pocket of his fur coat.
All went well, during the rest of the morning. His publisher was neither pre-occupied nor vague. He gave Ronnie a great reception and his full attention.
In the best of spirits, and looking the bronzed picture of perfect health, Ronnie returned to his club, lunched, showed his 'cello to two or three friends, then caught the three o'clock train to Hollymead.
The seven months were over. All nightmares seemed to have cleared away. He was on his way to Helen. In an hour and a half he would be with her!
He began to wonder, eagerly, what Helen would say to the Infant.
He felt quite sure that as soon as he got the bow in his hand, and the 'cello between his knees, the Infant would have plenty to say to Helen.
He had kept his yearning to play, under strong control, so that she might be there to enjoy with him the wonderful experience of those first moments.
As the train slowed up for Hollymead, and the signal lights of the little wayside station appeared, Ronnie took the last dose of Dick's physic, and threw the bottle under the seat.
The Mirage
Helen awaited in her sitting-room the return of the carriage.
It had been a great effort to let it go to the station without her. In fact she had ordered it to the front door, and put on her hat and coat in readiness.
But at the last minute it had seemed impossible to meet Ronnie on a railway platform.
So she sent the brougham off without her, went upstairs, put on a soft trailing gown specially admired by Ronnie, paused at the nursery to make sure all was quiet and ready, then came down to her sitting-room, and tried to listen for a sound other than the beating of her own heart.
The room looked very home-like and cosy. A fire crackled gaily on the hearth. The winter curtains were drawn; the orange lampshades cast a soft golden light around.
The tea-table stood ready—cups and plates for two. The firelight shone on the embossed brightness of the urn and teapot.
Ronnie's favourite low chair was ready for him.
The room seemed in every detail to whisper, "Home"; and the woman who waited knew that the home within her heart, yearning to receive and welcome and hold him close, after his long, long absence from her, was more tender, more beautiful, more radiant, than outward surroundings could possibly be made.
No word save the one telegram had come from Ronnie since her letter to Leipzig. But she knew he had been desperately busy; and, with the home-coming so near, letters would have seemed to him almost impossible.
He could not know how her woman's heart had yearned to have him say at once: "I am glad, and you did right."
Her nervousness increased, as the hour for the return of the carriage drew near.
She wished she could be sure of having time to run up again to the nursery with final instructions to Nurse. Supposing baby woke, just as the carriage arrived, and the first sound Ronnie heard was the hungry wailing of his little son!
Passing into the hall, she stood listening at the foot of the stairs.
All was quiet on the upper landing.
She returned to the sitting-room, and rang the bell.
"Simpkins," she said to her butler, "listen for the carriage and be at the door when it draws up. It may arrive at any moment now. Tell Mr. West I am in here."
She sat down, determined to wait calmly; took up the paper and tried to read an article on foreign policy. It was then she discovered that her hands were trembling.
She laughed at herself, and felt better.
"Oh, what will Ronnie think of me! That I, of all people, should unexpectedly become nervous!"
She walked over to the fireplace and saw reflected in the mirror over the mantel-piece, a very lovely, but a very white, face. She did not notice the loveliness, but she marked the pallor. It was not reassuring.
She tried to put another log on to the fire, but failed to grip it firmly with the little brass tongs, and it fell upon the rug. At that moment she heard the sharp trot of the horses coming up the last sweep of the park drive.
She flung the log on to the fire with her fingers, flew to the door and set it open; then returned to the table and stood leaning against it, her hands behind her, gripping the edge, her eyes upon the doorway. Ronnie would have to walk the whole length of the room to reach her. Thus she would see him—see the love in his eyes—before her own were hidden.
She heard Simpkins cross the hall and open the door.
The next moment the horses' hoofs pounded up the drive, and she heard the crunch of the wheels coming to a standstill on the wet gravel.
A murmur from Simpkins, then Ronnie's gay, joyous voice, as he entered the house.
"In the sitting-room? Oh, thanks! Yes, take my coat. No, not this. I will put it down myself."
Then his footstep crossing the hall.
Then—Ronnie filled the doorway; tall, bronzed, radiant as ever! She had forgotten how beautiful he was. And—yes—the love in his eyes was just as she had known it would be—eager, glowing.
She never knew how he reached her; but she let go the table and held out her arms. In a moment he was in them, and his were flung around her. His lips sought hers, but her face was hidden on his breast. She felt his kisses in her hair.
"Oh, Helen!" he said. "Helen! Why did I ever go!"
She held him closer still, sobbing a little.
"Darling, we both thought it right you should go. And—you didn't know."
"No," he agreed rather vaguely, "of course I didn't know." He thought she meant that he had not known how long the parting would seem, how insisten
t would be the need of each other. "I should not have gone, if I had known," he added, tenderly.
"I knew you wouldn't, Ronnie. But—I was all right."
"Of course you were all right. You know, you said we were a healthy couple, so I suppose there was no need to worry or to expect anything else. Was there? All the same I did worry—sometimes."
She waited for more.
It did not come. Ronnie was kissing her hair again.
"Were you glad when you had my letter, Ronnie?" she asked, very low.
"Which letter, sweet? I was always glad of every letter."
"Why, the last—the one to Leipzig."
"Ah, of course! Yes, I was very glad. I read it in your cousin's flat. I had just been showing him—oh, Helen! That reminds me—darling, I have something to show you! Such a jolly treasure—such a surprise! I left it in the hall. Would you like me to fetch it?"
He loosed his arms and she withdrew from them, looking up into his glowing face.
"Yes, Ronnie," she said. "Why, certainly. Do fetch it."
He rushed off into the hall. He fumbled eagerly with the buckles of the canvas bag. It had never taken so long, to draw the precious Infant forth.
He held it up to the hall lights. He wanted to make sure that it was really as brown and as beautiful as it had always seemed to him.
Yes, it was as richly brown as the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur!
He walked back into the sitting-room, carrying it proudly before him.
Helen had just lighted the spirit-lamp beneath the swinging kettle on the brass stand. Her face was rather white again.
"Here it is, Helen," he said. "The most beautiful 'cello you ever saw! It is one hundred and fifty years old. It was made at Prague. I paid a hundred and fifty pounds for it."
Helen looked.
"That was a good deal to pay for a 'cello," she said, yet conscious as she spoke that—even as Peter on the Mount—she had made the remark chiefly because she "wist not what to say."
"Not a bit!" said Ronnie. "A chap in the orchestra at the Hague, with a fine 'cello of his own, told me he had never in his life handled such a beauty. He considered it a wonderful bargain."
