In the street I had to lean against the wall of an office building for a
time, for there was no strength in my legs. A policeman came from the
centre of the street.
"What's the matter, young fellow? Sick?"
"Just a momentary faintness," I answered. "I'm all right, really."
"Well, go in there and get yourself a drink."
I saw him pointing with his club at a nearby cafe. I got there somehow
and sat down at a little table.
"What's yours, bud?" the bartender called with a great assumption of
joviality.
"A glass of sherry," I gasped. He brought it and set it before me. I saw
him preparing for a pleasant chat.
"I'm very sorry," I said, "but would you mind not talking to me? I--I've
got some business to think out."
"Oh, have it your own way," he replied, deeply offended, and returned
behind his bar.
There was just one problem in my mind. What was I to say to Helen?
Should I tell her the truth? Ought I to tell her? Three months, or less,
the doctor had said. Could I make her happy for those three months? Was
that not better than telling her? But would she guess? Could I keep it
from her? Should I be able to play my part? Back and forth these
questions raced in my mind. No answer came, for either choice seemed
wrong. Helen and I did not lie to each other. But this was a different
kind of lie from any mere vulgar deception. Had she the right to know?
"Say, if you're going to sit there all day, how about a little
action?"--this from the bartender.
"Oh, hell," I exclaimed, "bring me anything you like--or have it
yourself on me."
"Thanks, I'll take half a dozen cigars," he said, rattling a box.
"Damned if you aren't a queer guy. From the East, I guess."
"Yes--but please do me the favour to keep still."
"I'm not trying to butt in on nobody," he muttered, aggrieved again.
"And I'm good enough to talk to any stuck-up Eastern guy that comes
along."
As I disappointed him by ignoring this last remark, he took refuge in
polishing glasses. I was conscious of a distant rumbling inside him from
time to time. But I did not dare go back to Helen until I had got
control of myself again. Furthermore, I must make up my mind about what
I was to tell her. There seemed no way in which I could force my
thoughts into an orderly arrangement. Little glimpses of our life
together--of all we had done and planned in the last four years--kept
interposing themselves between me and the present. "Helen--Helen--my
Helen--my wife," was ceaselessly echoing inside my head. Finally a
resolve came to me. "I can't tell her," I said to myself--"right or
wrong, I can't."
I went to the telegraph office and sent a message to Mr. Claybourne.
Then I took the long journey back to our bungalow. Helen was sitting on
the verandah when I got there, the baby riding a hobby-horse near her,
and Miss Brock reading aloud. Helen's face was thin now, but she had
lost none of her delicate beauty. I went up to her and kissed her.
"What did the doctor say, Ted dear? How long you have been."
"He says it is all right, sweetheart. I am bringing good news." I
wondered that the lie did not choke me.
"Honour bright, Ted?" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. It was our
one oath of truthfulness that she demanded of me. Never before had I
violated it.
"Honour bright, Helen precious."
"Ted, isn't it glorious! I feel better already. Will it be in June?"