"A what?" I asked.

"Lunger. Has she got T.B.? Because, if she has, I don't want her in no house of mine. Can't rent a bungalow out here after any one has died of tuberculosis in it."

"My wife is only slightly ill."

"They all say that," remarked the landlord.

"Will you let me have it for more rent?"

"No--but I'll sell it, young man."

We d.i.c.kered a while and at last struck a bargain. I could not draw from the agent any opinion concerning a fair price. I had to trust to luck that I wasn't being unreasonably cheated. It was a top price, I knew, but Helen could not stay in a hotel in Los Angeles. A sum down, including a check, served to clinch the bargain. There remained only to buy some cottage furniture and install it.

On the way back the agent tried to hold me up for a commission.

"You'll collect your commission from your friend, the landlord," I replied firmly. We let it go at that.

Three days later I got enough furniture into the place to enable us to move in. My three days of preparation involved a great deal of strenuous urging. But it was done at last, even to a floored tent behind the bungalow for Helen and me to sleep in. We had likewise a cook, a protesting coloured woman from Texas, who swore many strange oaths that she had never seen any one in such a mighty hurry as I was. A special bribe got her from under the nose of some of Pasadena's elite who were besieging the employment agency.

It was late in the afternoon when Miss Brock and I carried Helen from the carriage to a long chair on the verandah and propped her up with pillows. The baby had already begun to play about the bungalow. Inside we could hear the cook talking to her pots and pans as if they were sentient beings in league against her. By the verandah stood two orange trees in blossom. The breeze stirred slightly in their branches, carrying a whiff of their sweet, sickly scent to my nostrils. I started with a shudder, for I remembered how I had always hated the scent of orange blossoms from the time I first met the flower girl under the archway of Charing Cross station. Could this be why I disliked that odour? Was I to learn the reason at last? Helen was holding my hand, resting quietly, for the journey had tired her. I saw her look at the mountains and from them to her baby at play.

"Ted," she said, so faintly I had to lean forward to hear, "I want to go home--to our own little house in Hertfordshire. Take me back, Ted. I'm homesick."

Chapter Seventeen

WE STAND AT THE CROSS-ROADS

The next day we procured a specialist from Los Angeles to come out and examine Helen. He was an elderly man with white hair and whiskers, together with what I thought were objectionably brusque manners. I was partly rea.s.sured by the speed and skill with which he worked--"the old devil is efficient for all his rudeness," I thought. I had a doc.u.mentary history of the case, prepared by our doctor in London. This I gave him.

He stuffed it into his pocket without so much as glancing at it. He spoke sharply once or twice to Miss Brock because that young woman did not move quickly enough to suit him. To Helen he said almost nothing beyond asking a half dozen brief questions. When he had finished--he was about an hour at it, all told--he turned to me and said: "Come to my office tomorrow, Mister--let's see, what is your name? ah, yes, Jevons"--(consulting his note-book). "I'll give you my opinion of your wife's case then. Here's the card of a local doctor--a good man. Use him. I'll come out again, if you wish or your doctor sends for me. Good morning." He was off without waiting for further reply.

"Ted, he's a beast," Helen exclaimed. "Don't let him near me."

I tried to explain that a great scientist and expert perhaps lost, in time, some of his human touch. His reputation we knew to be supreme in his field; it was best to take him as we found him.

"I shan't worry about his manners, sweetheart, while he is curing you,"

I concluded.

I went in to Los Angeles the next morning to call at the doctor's office. The waiting room was full of all sorts and conditions of men and women, seated on chairs around the four walls. I stood, for there were no more empty chairs. A young lady, the doctor's secretary, took my card and laid it on her desk.

"The doctor is engaged just now," she said. More arrived, but none was shown into the doctor's office. I stood, my heart beating wildly, almost frenzied by the delay. The door opened, and the old physician looked into his waiting room. He beckoned to a lady in a far corner. She arose and went toward him. In my anxiety, I forgot all etiquette.

"Doctor!" I pleaded. "One moment."

"What is it?" he turned, vexed. "Can't you wait your turn?"

"Just a word and then I'll wait all day, if necessary."

"Well?"

"My wife--you examined her yesterday--can you tell me--?" I stumbled over my words.

"Let's see--what name?"

"Mrs. Jevons," I answered.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Jevons--that case." He spoke in a loud tone of voice. All the waiting room was listening.

"There's absolutely no hope, Mr. Jevons. I don't think she will live three months. Good morning."

"No--no--hope! Doctor!" I knew my voice was breaking, and I could feel the eyes of all those sitting there upon me.

"You came too late," he said. "What's the use of coming out here with a case in its last stages? There's no hope."

He went into his room, followed by the woman patient, and banged the door. I stood stunned, dazed, so weak I did not trust myself to take a step; and still the eyes from all around the room stared at me. "You G.o.d d.a.m.ned brute!" I muttered under my breath, "G.o.d d.a.m.n your dirty soul!"

and staggered toward the doctor's closed door. Then I paused. "After all," I thought, "why should we matter to him?" A great rage against the others sitting there seized me. Had they no decency to stare at me like that? I stiffened. "I won't give them any more show for their money, the loathsome hounds," and I went to the secretary's desk to pay the fee. I was surprised to note that I counted out the bills with a steady hand.

She handed me a receipt.

"I am sorry, Mr. Jevons," she said, so the others could not hear.

I looked at her blankly a moment. "Thank you."

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 a.s.sumption of joviality.

"A gla.s.s 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, h.e.l.l," I exclaimed, "bring me anything you like--or have it yourself on me."