"I've watched you every day, Ted, sweetheart, during these months we
have been together--and I have seen you struggling to fight down that
fear of failure in you. You've tried to hide it from me, dearest"--she
smiled and shook a finger at me--"you can't fool me, because I love you.
I've wanted to tell you I knew, and I was afraid, if I did, you couldn't
work at all."
"Well," I said slowly, "it's true. I hate chemistry--and I have always
hated it--or is it only work I hate?"
Helen shook her head: "We must get to your real work, Ted, as soon as we
can. There is your toy-theatre all ready for you on top of the bookcase.
We'll begin writing for it, dear. When the company is all right, we'll
give up chemistry forever and begin for ourselves."
I stood up and drew her to me under the light. I took her face in both
my hands, turned it toward mine, and looked into her grey eyes.
"Do you still love me, Helen?"
She closed her eyes. "So much, Ted, it hurts and hurts clear down in
me." Her hands clutched my shoulders until the skin grew white over her
finger knuckles....
* * * * *
It is not possible that two persons could have been any happier than
Helen and I were during Christmas week at Winchester. Others may have
equalled our happiness; no couple have surpassed it. Not only was it the
first time we had been by ourselves since on board the steamer, but also
Winchester itself, as that very Camelot we had made up stories about in
the woods back of Deep Harbor, was to us a speechless delight. I had not
been there before, and thus its quaintness was as new to me as to Helen.
We ate and slept in a hotel somewhere off the High Street. The rest of
the time (despite the oncoming event of Edward Jevons, Junior) we
wandered about or sat in the nave of the long bare cathedral. Helen
actually got as far afoot as the summit of St. Catherine's hill. We took
a fly and drove out to St. Cross, where we designed a new dream cottage
from its mediaeval gables and timbers. The same faithful fly conducted
us to other delights when I thought Helen had walked enough. There are
more things in Winchester than can be set down, save in the book of
memory. Jane Austen's house, the cathedral, the school, the river Itchen
where old Izaak Walton fished--one can go on for a long time wandering
among mysteries and dreaming. We grew technical over architecture and
had an argument about it with a verger in the cathedral. On the High
Street we likewise discovered a satisfactory second-hand bookshop
containing a lot of theatrical memoirs. Joys of joys, we bought
ourselves as a Christmas present Bell's British Theatre, complete with
all the plates! To be sure, it was but a shilling a volume; yet no
collector ever walked out of Christie's more proud than we. Forty
shillings had been set aside for Christmas recklessness. Bell and his
collection of plays made quite a hole in this, even at only a shilling a
volume.
On the night before Christmas there was a telegram from my father. The
trouble had been successfully located in the commercial acid; there was
no doubt that with pure acid the trouble of manufacturing would be
cleared up. More good news was to come next morning. There was a letter
from Deep Harbor containing a present of one hundred dollars for Helen,
as well as the announcement that her father purposed, from this time
forth, to give his daughter one hundred dollars a month pocket money.
"Ted, Ted!" she cried, pouring her letter and its contents into my lap,
her eyes dancing, "we can get all the books we want! See here! And we'll
have five more pounds of our own to spend on our week-ends."
Curiously enough, it did not cross the mind of either of us that we
could possibly have any other use for that money. Perhaps we had been
badly brought up, both of us--I don't know. At any rate we always had a
lot of fun out of our extravagance. And on this morning, as soon as we
could get there, we furiously rang the doorbell of the bookshop, in
spite of the closed shutters. We knew we could rout the old codger, the
owner, out, if we made noise enough, for he lived over his shop. He
grumbled at first; then, when he found us equipped to buy, cheerfully
let us in. No, we did not spend all of the twenty pounds, but we made a
good hole in that, too. He had a rather good _Memoirs of Charles
Matthews_, extra-illustrated. It was a new kind of pleasure for us to
own such a wanton luxury as that.
A day or two after Boxing Day we returned to London. Going up in the
train, I said: "Well, Lady Grey Eyes, the second Christmas didn't turn
out so black as we'd painted it, did it?" Helen simply looked things at
me.
"They'll all be as wonderful as this one, dear," I added, Helen's eyes
clouded. "Don't say it, Ted! Don't!" and she touched the wood of the
railway carriage beside her. We were alone in the compartment, so my
reply may be imagined.
* * * * *
It was some time in the spring that a trained nurse came to live with us
in the little house in Kensington. Her advent set the whole household
bustling over the preparations for the expected arrival of Edward
Jevons, Jr. It was my mother who insisted upon Helen's having a nurse,
long before the day was due, although she still maintained her attitude
of being officially polite to Helen and almost ignoring my existence. I
had not yet atoned for my fatal attempt at setting matters right. Things
were going swimmingly at the factory. I was naturally busy enough, for I
had to train the whole staff, with the result that production was not
yet on a large scale. But what we were making was right, orders were
coming in, and every week I was able to report increased production.
Chitty was one smile as he watched me whistling at my work.
Helen and I were now under no worry or anxiety concerning the event to
befall her. The doctor was cheery, Helen's health and physique were
splendid; the trained nurse kept a sharp look-out. Our only regrets were
over the interruptions of our week-ends and the presence of the
confounded nurse always under foot. A stranger in one's household, on an
intimate footing, is a supreme test of one's forbearance. It must also
be quite a test for the stranger. This nurse was willing, capable, and
good-humoured; yet there were times when Helen and I wished her
elsewhere. She packed Helen off to bed at nine; Helen and I were
accustomed to sitting up till all hours, talking or reading in the
study. She frowned upon the theatre and forbade the pit altogether,
although, now Helen and I were in funds, that prohibition did not worry
us so much. We were not permitted to dine of a Saturday night at the
Cafe Royal or have luncheon at Kettner's. Indeed, Helen's diet was
prescribed for her--a great hardship, as neither of us liked "wholesome"
food and things that "were good" for you. I had to feed Helen chocolates
on the sly. My own movements were curtailed, because it was no fun doing
things without Helen. Not for worlds would I have bought an old book
unless Helen were along to share in the joy of the purchase.
About Edward Jevons, Junior, and his future we talked very little. We
were, ridiculous as it sounds, a little shy about him and, again, we
thought the whole idea of our having a baby of our own the biggest joke
imaginable. It did seem too absurd.
"Ted, I simply can't imagine a baby! I'm not sure I want one interfering
with us, dear. Isn't it dreadful?"
I couldn't imagine one, either, looking at Helen sitting there before
the fire in a dressing gown with her hair down, to please me. She looked
almost like a baby herself. Her face was still, with all its grave and
tender beauty, the face of a school-girl. I think the nurse was shocked
at our behaviour. She used to lecture us on the care and rearing of
infants. I gathered from her that it was a task of more complexity than
we had realized.
"I suppose they _will_ get colic?" I ventured, as a contribution to the
discussion one day. I had loosed the flood. The nurse insisted upon
showing me a medical book full of disgusting pictures, containing an
absolutely terrifying account of the things that could, would, and did
happen to babies. Helen had to rescue me. It had been in vain for me to
protest that I should always send for a doctor. My protests went
unheeded until Helen spared me further details.
There came a day when the doctor remained after his morning call, and I
found myself banished from Helen's bedside. Nor could I get at my study,
because that opened off Helen's room. I had time only to kiss Helen
hurriedly, tell her to be game, and glance at a bassinette which had
been placed in the room. The nurse was moving about in her room, and
Frances had been sent away to visit some friends. The house was
impossible; and yet I couldn't go out to the factory at Willesden. I was
driven to reading a political leader in _The Times_. The country
appeared to be in a bad way, judging from what I read, so that didn't
cheer me up. I felt somehow that I ought to have profound emotions.
Instead, I was worried fearfully about Helen and wanted her. I could not
bear to think of pain.
Once or twice the doctor came downstairs. He seemed, however, to
consider brusqueness the proper professional attitude. The nurse was
worse, for she told me not to "bother" her, when I asked her about
Helen. She refused to take a note up to Helen, although all I had
written was "love--Ted" on a slip of paper. There was only Sims, my
mother's maid, to sympathize with me, and I strongly suspected her
sympathy was tinged with dislike for the nurse. Sims had refused one
morning to carry up hot water for the nurse. My mother had promptly
squelched that incipient revolt.
"I 'ates them as gives themselves airs in other people's 'ouses," had
been Sims' verdict on the nurse. "Fancy 'er speakin' like that to you,
Master Ted, when it's you givin' 'er employment! Stuck up, I calls it.
That's wot it is."
"You mustn't quarrel with the nurse, Sims. It would make trouble for
Mrs. Ted and the baby," I felt it my duty to say.
"Quarrel!" exclaimed Sims; "not likely! Not with 'er. I wouldn't stoop
to give 'er that much satisfaction"--and Sims reported elsewhere in
answer to a bell.
The nurse and I faced each other alone at luncheon; my mother ate in her
room, ministered to by Sims. It was a painful meal. I was not hungry,
and I could think of nothing at all appropriate to say to my companion.
She ate copiously--three glasses of milk I saw her swallow with my own
eyes. I must have been staring at her noticeably, for she said: "I
shan't get much sleep tonight, I expect. I need to save my strength." I
could not explain to her that drinking milk always set up a barrier
between me and the person who did it. She would not understand. It was
the nurse who gave me the knockout blow, upon leaving the table.
"It's no good worrying about your wife, Mr. Jevons. They all do it over
the first child. You'll soon get used to it, after a few more," and she
hurried upstairs. I was tempted to pursue her to argue this. What sort
of programme did she imagine that Helen and I were embarked upon? "At
least, now I come to think of it," I said to myself, "Helen and I have
never discussed this." More than one baby?--the thought followed me
about the room. How utterly preposterous. H'm. I sat down in a chair by
the window. The idea was overwhelming. I had always thought of Helen and
me as two persons going through life together. We had accepted, without
yet realizing at all what it meant, one amendment to our original plan.
But the nurse had conjured up the image of an indefinite sequence.
Clearly, it was unthinkable. Yet I was startled to consider how many
persons in this world had more than one baby. There was my
sister--making two in this very house. Chitty had six. Examples
multiplied themselves before me. "Helen, of course, shall decide this,"
was the rather unexpectedly sensible conclusion I finally arrived at. It
was, nevertheless, a disturbing thought that the nurse had suggested.
My father and mother went out to dinner by themselves, after asking me
for news. None had come. The doctor urged me to "clear out for a bit."
The house was really intolerable. "Come back about ten, if you like," he
said. I tried to walk to Piccadilly. The task was impossible; my knees
were too shaky. I took a hansom to the Cafe Royal and sat there drinking
coffee and Benedictine. The waiter brought me a French comic paper. My
sense of humour was not equal to it. At half past nine I bought Helen
some violets at the expensive little flower stall on the way out. Its
flowers were probably intended for _demi-mondaines_--at least, the price
indicated that fact--but the violets had as yet suffered no
contamination. "It will make Helen smile," I thought, "when I tell her
where I got them and with what a knowing air the yellow-haired vulture
behind the counter sold them to me." At the bookstall I got Helen some
French papers and the Paris New York _Herald_. I hesitated over
chocolates--there was no likelihood, I reflected, of running the night's
blockade with them. Instead, I went back into the cafe and had the
waiter wrap me up a bottle of green Chartreuse. Helen loved it. "_C'est
pour une malade_," I told the waiter. He grew sympathetic at once,
suggesting jellied bouillon in glass. I took a pint of it, as well as a
truffled _pate_ of chicken, "_en aspic_." The waiter scratched his head,
but could think of nothing more. I gave him half a crown for himself,
while the dignified doorman called me a hansom.
It was after ten when I arrived at Kensington. Still no news. I did not
dare ask the nurse to take my gifts up to Helen. Besides, Helen
preferred to have me give her things with my own hands. My mother had
retired; soon after, my father went. I sat down to wait. I smoked many
pipes, striving to keep awake. Sims, faithful soul, brought me a bottle
of stout with a plate of biscuits on her way to bed. Twelve, one, two
o'clock came. The house was quiet. Two or three times I dozed off, to
awake with a start. My pipe failed me at last, and I fell asleep in my
father's favourite armchair.
I was aware that some one was shaking me violently by the shoulder. I
opened my eyes, blinking, wondering what had happened. I saw the nurse
standing over me. Realization returned with a rush. I started to my
feet, terrified.
"Mr. Jevons, you have a daughter," she said. "Mrs. Jevons is all right
and can see you presently."
"A d-daughter?" I stammered, not able to assimilate this statement in my
dazed condition.
"Yes, Mr. Jevons, it's a girl. Eight pounds--a normal baby."
The nurse immediately left the room, not pausing to answer any further
questions. "A daughter," I thought--"but we haven't got a name for a
girl! What will we call it?" Helen had been so confident it would be
Edward Jevons, Junior! I paced up and down the room. A few minutes more
brought the doctor, all smiles, his brusqueness vanished. He warmly
shook my hand, telling me I could go upstairs for a short visit. I
hastily gathered together my presents for Helen and dashed for her room.
The nurse intercepted me at the door to slow me down. I entered on
tiptoe. There lay Helen in bed, looking more beautiful than I had ever
dreamed, a little smile of welcome on her lips. I laid the violets on
her, but the nurse snatched the other things away from me. She had,
however, the tact to leave us. I kneeled beside the bed and held Helen's
hand. We looked at each other. I kissed her gently on the mouth.
"Ted," she whispered, "it's a girl."