Three years and a few months more went by, not uneventfully for us, yet
without any striking change in the happy quiet of our lives in the
little Hertfordshire village. We had acquired a few friends, some from
London, others from among our neighbours. Week-ends were certain to find
our guest room occupied, if we were not ourselves away on a visit
elsewhere. There was tennis of a Saturday afternoon, golf, or a walk
across the fields by the paths leading Aldenham way. Often we rode
horseback, particularly in the autumn, when hounds were out. We were
not, however, hunting people, for we could not afford a pair of good
hunters; we contented ourselves with riding to the meets on our hired
beasts, with a canter through a lane afterwards.
When there was something new on at the theatre, we dined in town, coming
home after the performance by the late train. Our gradually increasing
circle of friends connected with the theatres made it possible for us to
obtain seats for first nights--not always, of course, but for many
important openings. We came to know, by sight, at least, the perpetual
first night audience of London, its critics, dramatists, and friendly
connections. We enjoyed thoroughly whispering and nudging one another:
"There's So-and-So," or "look at that dress Mrs. What's-her-Name is
wearing." It was our way of joining in the outburst of applause with
which it was the custom of the pit to greet the entry of each celebrity.
But our theatrical friends were not in this group of big-wigs. We knew
the younger generation--players of small parts, recent graduates from
the Benson company, dramatists who had not yet had a West End
production, idealistic members of the Stage Society--in fact, mostly the
youngsters who believed themselves "advanced." Perhaps they were; I
don't know. We were keen on Ibsen and smiled pityingly at the mention of
Pinero. We were Fabians because of Mr. Shaw. Sometimes we--Helen and
I--dabbled a bit in writing dramatic criticism. We began to get some
articles accepted. But our greatest fun upon returning from a first
night was to sit down and write parodies of the notice we expected to
read in the morning in _The Daily Telegraph_. We became quite skilled at
this latter art.
During these three years we saw my mother and sister but once or twice,
when they came back to London for short visits. My sister was being
taken to live now in Paris, now in Rome, and finally in Munich, to
follow out a theory of education invented by the family. My father we
saw more often, for he came back on periodical visits to look after his
business. He preferred, however, his club in town to our more
inaccessible village. If we wished to see much of him, we had to go up
to London.
The baby had grown to be a constant source of surprise and delight to
us. Her conversation was fluent, her interest in the garden intense. In
violation of all the proprieties, she sat in a high chair at table with
us for breakfast and luncheon. Leonidas also had his special chair in
one corner of the dining room, which he mounted at the sounding of the
gong and remained in until his own plate was carried out to his kennel.
The baby and Leonidas were most astonishingly good pals. He would
tolerate liberties at her hands that no one else dared venture upon. The
worst ordeal of the day for Leonidas was to take tea with the dolls.
With a napkin tied under his chin, he was compelled to occupy a place at
the dolls' tea-table and sit there immovable until the ceremony was
over. No Christian martyr ever had a more expressive countenance; yet
he, like the martyrs, did not question the necessity for his sufferings.
The lump of sugar which signalized the close of each day's tea-party
would send Leonidas galloping in frenzied circles about the garden in
joy over his regained freedom.
Our income was increasing, not to make us rich, but to keep pace with
the things we enjoyed doing. In the first place, there were the modest
profits of our share in the Willesden factory--a sum which about covered
ordinary living expenses, clothes, and theatre tickets. Then there was
Helen's allowance, which we used for horseback riding, week-end trips,
old books, and little luxuries. From time to time we sold a
manuscript--money which it particularly delighted us to earn. The great
play had not yet been written; yet we were still hopeful that the future
would bring us that. Several drawers of manuscript plays were beginning
to accumulate. Last of all, a sheer piece of financial luck befell us.
A friend who was a solicitor in the City, had a client interested in
chemical patents. I was casually asked one day to write a report on one
of these patents. Helen and I worked out a document one evening, after
messing about for a few days in the laboratory upstairs, sent it to the
solicitors, and thought no more about it. To our surprise we received a
check for fifty guineas a few days later, together with a request for
reports on other patents. We embarked cautiously on the career of
consultant, for, although the fees were tempting, we both feared being
taken again from our writing and reading. We set a limit to the time to
be given to this new work, not thinking it right wholly to refuse such a
gift at fortune's hands. These occasional fees put us beyond any fear of
financial worry. Helen refused, on the other hand, to let me open an
office in the City. As long as the clients were willing to submit work
to me at home, well and good. My mornings, she insisted, should be kept
free for writing. Thus our days were very full and very happy.
We made a few trips to the Continent on our own account. The consulting
fees made these easily possible. We went to Paris and Rouen, to the
French Channel watering places, through Normandy, Holland, and
Belgium--all at different times. We were never away longer than ten
days, on account of the baby, and often not more than the week-end. In
the same way I took Helen to see more of England, until, like me, she
soon came to look upon England as home. Memories of Deep Harbor, in
spite of weekly letters from her father and mother, were growing dim.
There was no question of home-sickness; instead, I could see the love of
England in her eyes as we rode between the Hertfordshire hedgerows or
chatted with our friends at tea time in the garden.
There was but one thing that troubled me; in spite of our outdoor life
and quiet habits, the climate did not always agree with Helen. In the
winter she had too many heavy colds; in the spring her cough lingered
longer than I liked. It was in June, when we were entering upon our
fourth year in the village, that I asked a doctor in town to come out
and have a special look at her. She had been a little languid, a most
unusual thing for her, and the cough still hung on. The local
practitioner, an amiable man harassed with overwork, had made light of
it.
"Your soil is a bit clayey," he had said. "It would be better if you
were on gravel, but it's nothing. Keep on with your riding; it will soon
pass away."
It hadn't. That is why I sent for the London man. I waited downstairs
for his verdict. He came in smiling, after half an hour, and I could
feel my heart leap at the sight of his cheerful face.
"I don't think it's anything," he said. "Come, we won't believe it is,"
he added, and a strange icy chill went through me, leaving me speechless
and physically helpless. I had just strength to grasp a chair. "I
shouldn't say anything to her about it," he added--"at least, not for
the present. I've taken a sample of her sputum and will have it
analyzed, just to make certain. Still, I can't believe it."
"Believe what?" I gasped, my voice breaking in spite of my efforts at
self-control.
"Now don't you worry, old man. We've caught it early, if it is
anything--that's the main thing. There is a dull spot on one of the
lungs that will bear a bit of watching."
I think it was the first time in my life I have ever felt sheer,
absolute terror. My thoughts were raging like a madman's. I could not
speak a word, try as I would.
"Buck up, old chap," he said, looking curiously at me. "Take a drop of
brandy. You mustn't let Mrs. Ted see you like that." We were old
friends, this doctor and I, for he had been the family specialist in
town for years. "The main thing is not to worry or let her worry. Mind,
not a word to her until I tell you."
Helen came in at this point, looking her own sweet self, with a smile
upon her face. She had never looked so beautiful to me in her life.
"Ted, the doctor says you are a silly old goose to worry about me. I'm
quite all right. He's prescribed a tonic. In a few days I'll be as well
as ever. Would you like a cup of tea, doctor, before you go? Do stay. We
can give you dinner later if you will."
"Thanks very much, I must be off. Other patients to see in town, you
know. You are very kind."
I detected in the doctor's manner a desire to get away quickly, which I
did not believe was wholly dictated by professional motives. "That man
believes more than he has told me," I thought, "and he is not easy about
this case." The baby toddled in to see the guest.
"Hasn't she grown wonderfully since you saw her, doctor?" said Helen,
picking the baby up in her arms.
"Er--yes," said the doctor. "Er--I shouldn't lift any heavy weights, if
I were you--not just for the present, you know."
Helen put the child down, with the slightest shadow in her eyes.
Something impelled me, at this, to rush to Helen's side and put my arm
about her. We stood facing the doctor, almost defiantly.
"I think I'll have a try for the 4.50--by the way, I suppose you'll be
in town, both of you, for the horseshow at Olympia next week?"
"Of course," said Helen; "we never miss that."
"Look in at my office as you pass by. Don't fail. Good-bye," and he was
off.
Helen took the baby to the nurse and came back to me. She put her hands
on my shoulders, and said: "Now, Ted, tell me what the doctor told you.
No fibs, please, sweetheart."
I looked at her grey eyes and had to fight to keep the tears out of my
own.
"We neither of us know for certain yet, my wife dear. He's having your
sputum analyzed."
"Can you analyze it, Ted?"
"No, dear. I know nothing of physiological chemistry--and I haven't a
proper microscope for that work."
"Ted," she said, sitting down in her favourite chair, "I'm not going to
give in, whatever happens." She shut her lips with something of the
decision I had often noted in her father's face.
"Dearest, we must _not_ make mountains out of molehills. Wait until we
know."
"No, Ted, we must think. There's the baby to consider--as well as
ourselves."