"Dear old boy, Ted. I love you," she leaned over me and whispered.
* * * * *
The local practitioner confirmed the opinion of Dr. Krehstadt, the
specialist. He and I, with Miss Brock, held a council-of-war while Helen
was taking her afternoon nap next day.
"Why in the name of heaven did the doctors in London and New York talk
so optimistically to us?" I asked him, for he was a pleasant-spoken
young man with friendly blue eyes. He shrugged.
"Perhaps," he hazarded, "they thought it important to keep your courage
up. Or it is possible"--and he hesitated--"I hate to say this of my
colleagues--yet it may be they wished to pass you along. I don't say it
was the reason in your case, Mr. Jevons, but I have known it to have
been done with other tubercular cases sent out here."
"What have you thought, Miss Brock?" I turned to the trained nurse. She
was a level-headed, taciturn person, with a quiet way of always doing
her work exactly as expected of her. It suddenly occurred to me I had
not asked her opinion before.
"I have had a good deal of experience with tuberculosis patients, Mr.
Jevons. I confess I have been worried about Mrs. Jevons since I first
came into the case."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Well, Mr. Jevons--I'm not a doctor. It's not my business to offer
opinions or to make a diagnosis. Besides, Mr. Jevons--seeing you with
Mrs. Jevons every day, who could tell you? I've seen a lot of death and
suffering in my hospital work--I thought I was callous. I guess I'm
not."
A grey cloud caught on the summit of one of the mountains and spread
along below the topmost ridge. I watched it slowly blotting out the
crest of the range.
"Do you object if I smoke?" the doctor inquired.
"No--pray do," I said. I felt tired, old--as if youth had suddenly left
me. Miss Brock got up and went into the house.
"Doctor," I pleaded again. "Is there anything we can try--however new or
experimental--whatever the risk, as long as it offers just one
chance--one?"
He shook his head. "I know of nothing, Mr. Jevons, that will cause new
lung tissue to grow."
I knew my question was hopeless; I had read the best medical works on
tuberculosis since this had come to Helen, but one struggles for a gleam
of hope to the end.
"She has had no pain--or very little; no haemorrhages. That, too, misled
us."
"There are many cases like your wife's," the doctor said. "Simply a
gradual wasting away and loss of strength."
"I can't reason it out, doctor. It isn't fair."
He shifted in his chair, knocking the ash from his cigar.
"If you were a doctor, Mr. Jevons, you would come across a lot of things
you couldn't reason out--that aren't fair. But they happen."
"Yes," I said. "I suppose, like everybody, we think our own case the
only important one in the world. But it does not make it any easier to
know there are others suffering as we suffer. I am not fond of seeking
that kind of sympathy. I say it's a damned unfair thing all round."
"I'm afraid, Mr. Jevons, that Nature cares nothing for the individual."
The doctor threw away his cigar and held out his hand.
"I'll look in every day, Mr. Jevons--but there isn't much I can do."
"How long?" I faltered, as he went toward his horse and buggy.
"It's hard to say--something depends, of course, on her natural
vitality." He stood, choosing words. "I don't believe you will lose her
until after Christmas."
The word rang in my head, as I watched him drive away.
How many Christmas days had we planned, years ago in Deep Harbor? And
now--I could think no longer.
Miss Brock appeared in the door. "Mrs. Jevons is awake. She wants to see
you."
"I'm coming." My Helen--my Helen--I could feel the blood beating against
my temples on the way to her tent.
* * * * *
November, the beginning of December--I checked the days off. Helen could
not stir from her chair now--the dark circles were deepening under the
grey eyes--the cheeks that once glowed on horseback in the winter fields
of Hertfordshire were white and drawn in the warm California sunshine.
It was pain, agony, to look at her, and yet I laughed and joked with
her, between our love-making, as we had always done. For, strangest
thing of all, Helen thought she was getting better. The first day she
discovered that walking was too great an effort, I was terror-stricken,
thinking, "Now she will guess." But no, she attributed it merely to some
passing phase--to being overtired--and her gentle good humour and faith
were as steadfast as ever. She noticed that she coughed more, and that
the coughing spells left her exhausted. Nevertheless she attributed even
that to the normal progress of the disease toward its cure. Thus each
day made it more certain than ever that I could not tell her the truth.
There were many nights that I lay awake in our tent, beside Helen, and
fought this question over again and again. To this day I have not found
the answer. Would she have more directions to give me about the baby, if
she knew, I wondered? and several times this thought nearly forced me to
speak. Would it be right to let her leave her baby without a word about
her future? Then, when morning came, Helen would talk to me about going
home in June, or make plans for doing something to our house in
Hertfordshire, and I could not speak.
Christmas day came, after great preparations on our part to observe it
as we always had. There was a tree for the baby, and I ransacked Los
Angeles for things to please Helen, or other trifles to make her laugh.
The coloured genius of the kitchen cooked a marvellous turkey. We had a
plum pudding all the way from England. Dinner was served on a little
table before Helen's tent. Miss Brock allowed Helen to eat some of the
white meat of the turkey. Hand in hand Helen and I sat watching the
baby's joy in her heap of new toys.
"Our Christmas, Ted. It's our day," Helen whispered, her cheek against
mine--her old trick when she was happy or pleased. "Do look at baby,
Ted. Isn't she a darling?"
"Mummy dear, Santa Claus brought me a real paint-box, an' brushes, an'
pencils, an' paper, an' a book to paint in."
"Isn't that wonderful! Show mummy all your presents."
Baby began bringing them up, one by one, laying them in rows at her
mother's feet. A telegraph boy arrived. I snatched the message from him.
I had wired Mr. Claybourne a day or two before that time was nearly up.
He had foreseen that Helen might read it.
"Coming with mother for a Christmas visit. We leave tomorrow. Love to
you three." I showed it to Helen.
"How nice of dad, Ted! I'm so glad he's going to take a holiday. Why
didn't they plan to be here today?"
Soon after, she went to sleep, and I sat at her feet, thinking of
Christmas. At five the doctor dropped in. I saw Miss Brock talking aside
with him by his buggy.
"Don't wake her yet," he said, and led me around to the front verandah.
I knew what he meant.
"It may be tonight or tomorrow, Mr. Jevons," he began, as he took his
chair. "Miss Brock reports that she has grown markedly weaker in the
last twenty-four hours. The excitement of Christmas was not good for
her, but I did not want to deprive her of that pleasure. I can stay, if
you wish it. There is nothing, however, that I can do. Miss Brock is
most competent. I shall be within call, in any event."
"Her father and mother are leaving Deep Harbor tomorrow."
"They will be too late." He said it quite gently, laying his hand upon
my knee. I could see him watching me narrowly.
"Go back to her, my boy. I mustn't keep you." He got up and walked down
the steps.
In the tent I found Helen just waking up.
"It was--a--beautiful--Christmas--Ted. Why--Ted--I'm awfully--weak."
I gave her a sip of brandy; the doctor had authorized it. Miss Brock
came to the tent.
"Will you leave us please?" I asked. "Stay within call with the baby."
Helen was dozing again and did not hear what I said. I put her on her
bed and slipped off her dressing gown, tucking her in for the night. The
sun was just setting, and the first chill of the California night air
sent shivers through me. I put on a heavy overcoat and set my chair
beside her bed to wait.
All night I sat there, holding one of her hands. Now and then Miss
Brock, with a flash-lamp, came out from the bungalow. I sent her back
each time. Helen seemed to sleep quite peacefully. Only once did a fit
of coughing rouse her. It was about seven when she opened her eyes and
smiled at me.
"I think I'll be able to get up today, Ted," she said, so faintly, yet
distinctly. I kissed her. She gave me her hand to hold. As she lay there
looking at me with her grey eyes, I saw the expression in them change.
Something had come into them that I did not know.
"Miss Brock!" I called.
She stepped in instantly.
"Bring the baby here, will you? Then take her away again." Miss Brock
quickly returned with little Helen.
"Good morning, mummy dear," she said.
"Helen--the baby--to say good morning," I whispered in her ear. Helen
opened her eyes, looking at me a little puzzled. The strange expression
was still there. Slowly she turned her head and looked at the baby.
"Good morning, baby--precious."
I signed to Miss Brock, who took the child away. For a long time yet I
sat, holding Helen's hand. She dozed; and again her eyes would open,
with the faintest flicker of her smile upon her lips as she saw me by
her. Then she opened her eyes once, and I saw she no longer knew me.
"Helen--my Helen girl--it's Ted--your Ted," I whispered frantically. She
gave no sign--but slowly, ever so slowly, the eyes glazed. Her hand was
still in mine when I knew the end had come. I looked at my watch on the
camp table. Twenty minutes to eleven.
I got to my feet, gently laying the hand I had held on her breast. I
stooped and kissed her lips. From the door of the tent I looked back
again. She was beautiful. I faced the breeze and the dazzling sunshine
without. A heavy scent of orange-blossoms was in the air.
I walked into the living room of the bungalow. Miss Brock sprang to her
feet when she saw me come in. She gave me one look and dashed for the
tent. I sat down before the empty fire place. Little baby Helen ran to
me and climbed into my lap. A pair of grey eyes looked up smiling at me.
I think that saved me....