The Upas Tree; A Christmas Story for All the Year (eBook)

Florence L. Barclay (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2018
Charles River Editors (Verlag)
978-1-61430-414-2 (ISBN)

Infos

Christmas is the most famous holiday of the year, and the word itself evokes images of Santa Claus, reindeer, snow, Christmas trees, egg nog and more. At the same time, it represents Christianity's most important event, the birth of the baby Jesus. Instantly, well known Christmas carols ring in your ears, pictures of the Nativity Scene become ubiquitous, or maybe you even picture nutcrackers or Scrooge and Tiny Tim.

Textauszug

CHAPTER II - THE SOB OF THE WOMAN

Helen took off her riding-hat, and passed her fingers through the abundant waves of her hair.

“How long would it take you, Ronnie?” “Well—including the journey out, and the journey back, I ought to have a clear seven months. If we could get off in a fortnight, we might be back early in November; anyway, in plenty of time for Christmas.”

“Why do you say ‘we,’ darling?”

“Why not say ‘we’? We always do, don’t we?”

“Yes, dear. For three happy years it has always been ‘we,’ in everything. We have not been parted for longer than twelve hours at a time, Ronnie. But I fear Central Africa cannot be ‘we.’ I do not feel that I could go out there with you.”

“Helen! Why not? I thought you would be keen on it. I thought you were game to go anywhere!” Amazement and dismay were in his eyes.

She rose slowly, went over to the mantel-piece, moved some little porcelain figures, then put them back again.

When at length she spoke, she steadied her voice with an effort.

“Ronnie dear, Central Africa is not a place for a woman.”

“But, my dearest girl, a woman arrives there in my story! She crawls into the long grass with the man she loves, and disappears. Our missionary’s bride did it. Where a woman could not go, I must not go for my local colour. Oh, I say, Helen! You won’t fail me?”

He walked over to the window, and drummed again, with restless, nervous fingers, upon the In hoc vince pane.

She came behind him, laying her hand on his shoulder.

“Darling, it will break my heart if you think I am failing you. But, while you have been talking, I have faced the matter out, and—I must tell you at once—I cannot feel it either right or possible to go. I could not be away just now, for seven months. This place must be looked after. Think of the little church we are building in the village; the farms changing tenants this summer; the hundred and one things I, and I only, must settle and arrange. You never see the bailiff; you hardly know the tenants; you do not oversee the workpeople. So you can scarcely judge, dear Ronnie, how important is my presence here; how almost impossible it would be for me suddenly to go completely out of reach. My darling—if you keep to it, if you really intend to go, we must face the fact that it will mean, for us, a long parting.”

The tension of suspense held the stillness of the room.

Then: “It is my profession,” said Ronald West, huskily. “It is my career.”

She moved round and faced him. They stood looking at one another, dumbly.

She knew all that was in his mind, and most that was in his heart.

He knew nothing of that which filled her mind at the moment, and only partly realised the great, unselfish love for him which filled her heart.

He was completely understood. He rested in that fact, without in the least comprehending his own lack of comprehension.

Moving close to him, she laid both hands upon his shoulders, hiding her face in silence against his breast.

He stroked her soft hair—helplessly, tenderly.

With his whole heart he loved her, leaned upon her, needed her. She had done everything for him; been everything to him.

But he meant to carry his point. He intended to go to Central Africa, and it was no sort of good pretending he did not. You never pretended with Helen, because she saw through you immediately, and usually told you so.

He had not spent a single night away from her since that wonderful day when, calm and radiant, she had moved up the church in presence of an admiring crowd, and taken her place at his side.

He was practically unknown then, as a writer. No one but Helen believed in him, or understood what he had it in him to accomplish. Whereas Helen herself was the last representative of an ancient County family, owner of Hollymead Grange, and of a considerable income; courted, admired, sought after. Yet she gave herself to him, in humble tenderness. Helen had a royal way of giving. The very way she throned you in her heart, dropped you on one knee before her footstool.

He had fully justified her belief in him; but he well knew how much of his success he owed to her. Their love had taught him lessons, given him ideals which had not been his before.

But there was nothing selfish or sentimental about Helen. When the most sacred of their experiences crept into his work, and stood revealed for all the world to read; when his art transferred to hard type, and to the black and white of print and paper, the magic thrill of Helen’s tenderness, so that all her friends could buy it for four shillings and sixpence, and discuss it at leisure, Helen never winced. She only smiled and said: “The world has a right to every beautiful thing we can give it. I have always felt indignant with the people who collect musical instruments which they have no intention of playing; who lock up Strads and Cremonas in glass cases, thus holding them dumb for ever to the eager ear of a listening world.”

Only once, when he had put into a story a tender little name by which Helen sometimes called him, unable to resist giving his hero the bliss he, on those rare occasions, himself felt—he found a firm pencil line drawn through the words, when he looked at the proof sheets, after Helen had returned them to his desk. She never mentioned the matter to him, nor did he speak of it to her; but his hero had to forego that particular thrill, and it was a long time before Ronald himself heard again the words Helen had deleted.

He heard them now, however—murmured very softly; and he caught her to him with sudden passion, kissing her hair.

Yet he meant to go. In hoc vince. He must conquer his very need of her, if it came between him and the best thing he had yet done in his work.

He could not face the thought of the parting; but there was no need to face that as yet. A whole fortnight intervened. It is useless to suffer a pang until the pang is actually upon you. Besides, every experience—however hard to bear—is of value. How much more harrowing and vivid would be his next description of a parting——

Then, suddenly, Ronald felt ashamed. His arms dropped from around her. He knew himself unworthy—in a momentary flash of self-revelation he knew himself utterly unworthy—of Helen’s generous love, and noble womanhood.

“My wife,” he said, “I won’t go. It isn’t worth it.”

Her arms strained around him, and he heard her sob; and, alas—it was the sob of the woman in the long grass, when she clung to the man who had crawled out first. His plot stood out to him once more as the supreme thing.

“At least,” he added, “it wouldn’t be worth it, if it costs you so much. It is my strongest plot, but I will give it up if you would rather I stayed at home.”

Then Helen loosed her detaining arms, and lifting a brave white face, smiled at him through her tears.

“No, Ronnie,” she said. “I promised, when we married, always to help you with your work and to make it easy. I am not going to fail you now. If the new book requires a parting, we will face it bravely. At the present moment we both need luncheon, and I must get out of my habit. Ring, and tell them we shall not be ready for a quarter of an hour, there’s a dear boy! And think of something really funny to tell me at lunch. Afterwards we will discuss plans.”

She had reached the door when Ronald suddenly called after her: “Helen! Hadn’t you something to tell me, too?”

She turned in the doorway. Her face was gay with smiles.

“Oh, mine must wait,” she said. “Your new plot, and the wonderful journey it involves, require our undivided attention.”

The sun shone very brightly just then. It touched the halo of Helen’s soft hair, turning it to gold. In hoc vince gleamed upon the pane.

For a moment she stood in the doorway, giving him a chance to insist upon hearing that which she had to tell. But Ronald, easily satisfied, turned and rang the bell.

“All right, sweet,” he said. “How lovely you look in the sunshine! If it was business, or anything worrying, I would certainly rather not hear it now. You have bucked me up splendidly, Helen. Seven months seem nothing; and my whole mind is bounding forward into my story. I really must give you an outline of the plot.” He followed her into the hall. “Helen! Do come back for a minute.”

But Helen was half way up the stairs. He heard her laugh as she reached the landing.

“I am hungry, dear,” she called over the banisters, “and so are you, only you don’t know it! Crawl out of your long grass, and make yourself presentable before the gong sounds; or I shall send bananas for one, to your study!”

“All right!” he shouted; gave Helen’s message to the butler; then went through the billiard-room, whistling gaily.

“Why, she is as keen as I am,” he said to himself, as he turned on the hot and cold water taps. “And she is perfectly right about not...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 22.3.2018
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Religion / Theologie ► Christentum ► Kirchengeschichte
• Themenwelt: Religion / Theologie ► Christentum ► Liturgik / Homiletik
• Schlagworte: egg nog • Rudolph • Santa • scrooge • Snow
• ISBN-10: 1-61430-414-9 / 1614304149
• ISBN-13: 978-1-61430-414-2 / 9781614304142