"It's my duty to warn you--that's all," he said, holding out his hand.
"And keep her out of crowds--no horseshow--no theatres."
I think I said good-bye; perhaps I thanked him for his kindness, but I
have no recollection of anything further until Helen and I stood outside
his house, with the June sunshine pouring down on us. I tried to smile
at her as I saw her grey eyes fixed on mine. It was rather a ghastly
attempt.
"I want to know everything, Ted. Don't keep anything back."
I told her as gently as I could, while we continued to walk along Harley
Street without noticing where we were going.
"Ted, I'm going to fight--and fight hard. I won't be beaten! I won't!"
For just a second I thought she was going to break down. I should have
known my Helen better.
"We must go home and make plans, dear. Call a hansom."
I looked about. We were just emerging in the Marylebone Road, or was it
Euston Road? Things danced a bit before my eyes, but I waved my stick. A
hansom drew up beside us.
"Euston," I said, helping Helen in.
* * * * *
At home I propped Helen up in a Madeira chair in the garden while we
were waiting for tea. I went into the house to get our bank passbook,
for there was need to find out where we stood financially. I paused as I
saw Helen with wistful eyes watching her baby playing about the garden.
The flowers made bright patches of color; overhead the sun and sky were
glorious with an English June. The world seemed such a beautiful
place--there sat a beautiful mother watching her baby at play--"Why?
why?" I asked, "why to us?" No answer came, then or since. I went into
the house.
Our finances proved to be in fair shape. We had enough laid by to take
us overseas if we were not extravagant travellers. The income from the
factory and Helen's allowance would keep us comfortable, even granting
considerable addition to our living expenses. In any event, there were
two generous families to lend help. It is curious, perhaps, that at
first we talked only of practical problems. The reason was that we were
both so determined to fight, we thought of nothing except immediately
planning our campaign. We would let the house furnished. It was the most
sensible thing to do, although the first tears came to Helen's eyes when
she spoke of strangers using our treasures.
After tea we wrote letters to both families. There remained the question
of where to go in September. Again we took an immediate decision, or
rather Helen did. She felt uncertain about carrying the baby to Egypt.
Neither of us had been there, and we did not know what Assuam might be
like. As for California, while it was equally a strange country to us,
it was at least America, and we should be, in a measure, at home. We put
postscripts to our letters, announcing southern California as our
destination in September. We dined in the garden and sat late under the
stars, her hand in mine.
* * * * *
Although we spent the whole summer in the garden, or taking short walks
along the field-paths near by, Helen began to lose strength. She seemed
quite unaware of it herself, for each day her word to me was that she
felt much better. And, mindful of the doctor's constant injunctions to
me to be always cheerful in her presence, I had to pretend that I, too,
thought her steadily improving. The doctor began to speak of the benefit
a change of climate would bring, by which I saw that he inwardly
admitted there had been no amendment. But he buoyed us up with hope and
optimism, telling us marvellous tales of cures that the American desert
had wrought. Almost our whole anguish was at the thought of leaving our
little home; as yet neither of us had had our confidence at all shaken.
On the contrary, so optimistic is youth, we had in considerable degree
recovered from our first grief. We knew we were fighting, perhaps with
our backs to the wall, but we did not doubt we should win. It was when I
was alone that doubt would sometimes steal in. For example, that walk
Helen took easily last week, she could not finish yesterday--what did it
mean? But I fought against doubt for her sake, well knowing that she
would instantly detect any signs of it in me. I strove not to think at
all, but to minister each day to Helen's comfort and happiness, leaving
tomorrow out of the account.
Packing up and closing the house was the hardest for Helen to bear. In
spite of the fatigue of climbing stairs, she went with me from room to
room for one last look. We were saying good-bye to home alone because
our letters to my family had been so optimistic they fancied we were
merely going away for the winter. They wrote that they would come to
visit us in the spring upon our return. My father had sent a check, and
Mr. Claybourne had cabled he would meet us in New York. So it came that
we left our house as we had entered it, alone.
At the station many kind friends came down to see us off, loading Helen
with flowers. The baby was in great form, for the excitement of travel
was new to her. I think it was the worst wrench of all for Helen to
leave Leonidas, although dog-loving friends were keeping him for us.
Poor Leonidas! the last thing we saw from the train window was the
diminishing wags of his tail, as he stood wondering on the platform. For
the first time since the doctor's diagnosis, Helen cried, leaning
against my shoulder as our train rushed toward Liverpool. But she soon
stopped, for little Helen started crying too when she saw "mummy dear"
in tears. Nurse sat up, rather grim, trying to keep the child amused. I
wondered how much nurse guessed or knew.
"It doesn't seem possible, Ted, that our happy life is over," Helen
whispered, looking out of the carriage window. "The home we had fixed up
for ourselves and were going to live in always--why should it happen to
us, Ted? Why?"
It was the same question I had asked myself in the garden.
"We'll come back in June," I said. God knows whether I thought it a lie
or not.
"In June, Ted. We must. It's--it's hard to be--brave, Ted, isn't it? But
I won't give in! I won't!"
* * * * *
We reached New York after a gloomy, foggy September passage. Mr.
Claybourne met us at the dock, accompanied by a Miss Brock, a trained
nurse, who was to travel with us to California. We paused in New York
only long enough to consult another tuberculosis specialist. This man
also expressed hope, sending us on our way rejoicing. Another halt of
twenty-four hours was made at Deep Harbor, to see Helen's mother.
It was a strange sensation to step off the limited at the familiar old
station which we had left under such different circumstances. Before us
lay State Street, with its trolley cars and soft coal smoke, not much
altered. Yet the mere sight of Deep Harbor lowered my spirits as nothing
else had done. I don't know why this was so. In spite of all I could do,
deep depression seized me as we drove to the Claybourne residence on
Myrtle Boulevard. I think Helen felt it, too, for her hand rested on
mine the whole way. Mr. Claybourne was busy with his new granddaughter,
whom he had deliberately spoiled from the time he first saw her on the
dock at New York. She was chattering away to him, as we drove along, in
a pronounced English nurse-girl accent, a habit that gave Mr. Claybourne
unending delight. I think the trace of English in Helen troubled him a
little. After over four years it was not surprising that Helen had
acquired a few English mannerisms and tricks of speech. Her slang,
indeed, was quite up to date. I had seen him look at his daughter more
than once as if he felt that she had drifted far away during the four
years and over of her married life. I wonder myself how it would seem if
Helen had been away a long time from me and returned with strange speech
and ways. I wanted to tell him she was a more splendid and wonderful
woman than she had ever been.
I dreaded the meeting with Mrs. Claybourne. I feared her tears and
wailings would have a depressing effect on Helen. Mrs. Claybourne was
constitutionally unable to look upon any but the gloomiest side of
things. What would happen now she had good cause for sorrow? I had
already warned Mr. Claybourne that only cheerfulness was to be about
Helen, hoping he would shield her from Mrs. Claybourne's worst. As I
expected, we were met with tears, to which, however, Mr. Claybourne put
a sudden and decided stop. It was possible to bully Mrs. Claybourne, I
observed with satisfaction.
After luncheon Miss Brock took Helen upstairs for a rest. Mr. Claybourne
and I faced one another, each equipped with one of the oily black cigars
I remembered so well.
"Ted, I haven't tried to ask many questions with Helen around. What are
our chances in this thing?"
"God! I wish I knew," I answered.
He smoked his cigar a while, staring out the window at the passersby on
Myrtle Boulevard, much as he had done the first time I told him I loved
his daughter.
"I don't need to ask if you and Helen have been happy," he went on,
still gazing at the street. "I saw that in her eyes when you brought her
off the boat."
"No two people could have been--happier," I murmured, my voice losing a
little of its steadiness in spite of me.
"I know, Ted. Yes, I think I know--you see, she's all I have, too."