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.