_Chapter 29_
Helena was dozing down in the cove at Tintagel. She and Louisa and Olivelay on the cool sands in the shadow, and steeped themselves in rest, ina cool, sea-fragrant tranquillity.
The journey down had been very tedious. After waiting for half an hourin the midnight turmoil of an August Friday in Waterloo station, theyhad seized an empty carriage, only to be followed by fivenorth-countrymen, all of whom were affected by whisky. Olive, Helena,Louisa, occupied three corners of the carriage. The men were distributedbetween them. The three women were not alarmed. Their tipsy travellingcompanions promised to be tiresome, but they had a frank honesty ofmanner that placed them beyond suspicion. The train drew out westward.Helena began to count the miles that separated her from Siegmund. Thenorth-countrymen began to be jolly: they talked loudly in their uncouthEnglish; they sang the music-hall songs of the day; they furtively drankwhisky. Through all this they were polite to the girls. As much couldhardly be said in return of Olive and Louisa. They leaned forwardwhispering one to another. They sat back in their seats laughing, hidingtheir laughter by turning their backs on the men, who were a trifledisconcerted by this amusement.
The train spun on and on. Little homely clusters of lamps, suggestingthe quiet of country life, turned slowly round through the darkness. Themen dropped into a doze. Olive put a handkerchief over her face and wentto sleep. Louisa gradually nodded and jerked into slumber. Helena satweariedly and watched the rolling of the sleeping travellers and thedull blank of the night sheering off outside. Neither the men nor thewomen looked well asleep. They lurched and nodded stupidly. She thoughtof Bazarof in _Fathers and Sons_, endorsing his opinion on theappearance of sleepers: all but Siegmund. Was Siegmund asleep? Sheimagined him breathing regularly on the pillows; she could see the underarch of his eyebrows, the fine shape of his nostrils, the curve of hislips, as she bent in fancy over his face.
The dawn came slowly. It was rather cold. Olive wrapped herself in rugsand went to sleep again. Helena shivered, and stared out of the window.There appeared a wanness in the night, and Helena felt inexpressiblydreary. A rosiness spread out far away. It was like a flock offlamingoes hovering over a dark lake. The world vibrated as the suncame up.
Helena waked the tipsy men at Exeter, having heard them say that therethey must change. Then she walked the platform, very jaded. The trainrushed on again. It was a most, most wearisome journey. The fields werevery flowery, the morning was very bright, but what were these to her?She wanted dimness, sleep, forgetfulness. At eight o'clock,breakfast-time, the 'dauntless three' were driving in a waggonette amidblazing, breathless sunshine, over country naked of shelter, ungraciousand harsh.
'Why am I doing this?' Helena asked herself.
The three friends, washed, dressed, and breakfasted. It was too hot torest in the house, so they trudged to the coast, silently, each feelingin an ill humour.
When Helena was really rested, she took great pleasure in Tintagel. Inthe first place, she found that the cove was exactly, almost identicallythe same as the Walhalla scene in _Walkuere_; in the second place,_Tristan_ was here, in the tragic country filled with the flowers of alate Cornish summer, an everlasting reality; in the third place, it wasa sea of marvellous, portentous sunsets, of sweet morning baths, ofpools blossomed with life, of terrible suave swishing of foam whichsuggested the Anadyomene. In sun it was the enchanted land of dividedlovers. Helena for ever hummed fragments of _Tristan_. As she stood onthe rocks she sang, in her little, half-articulate way, bits of Isolde'slove, bits of Tristan's anguish, to Siegmund.
She had not received her letter on Sunday. That had not very muchdisquieted her, though she was disappointed. On Monday she was miserablebecause of Siegmund's silence, but there was so much of enchantment inTintagel, and Olive and Louisa were in such high spirits, that sheforgot most whiles.
On Monday night, towards two o'clock, there came a violent storm ofthunder and lightning. Louisa started up in bed at the first clap,waking Helena. The room palpitated with white light for two seconds; themirror on the dressing-table glared supernaturally. Louisa clutched herfriend. All was dark again, the thunder clapping directly.
'There, wasn't that lovely!' cried Louisa, speaking of the lightning.'Oo, wasn't it magnificent!--glorious!'
The door clicked and opened: Olive entered in her long white nightgown.She hurried to the bed.
'I say, dear!' she exclaimed, 'may I come into the fold? I prefer theshelter of your company, dear, during this little lot.'
'Don't you like it?' cried Louisa. 'I think it's _lovely_--lovely!'
There came another slash of lightning. The night seemed to open andshut. It was a pallid vision of a ghost-world between the clangingshutters of darkness. Louisa and Olive clung to each otherspasmodically.
'There!' exclaimed the former, breathless. 'That was fine! Helena, didyou see that?'
She clasped ecstatically the hand of her friend, who was lying down.Helena's answer was extinguished by the burst of thunder.
'There's no accounting for tastes,' said Olive, taking a place in thebed. 'I can't say I'm struck on lightning. What about you, Helena?'
'I'm not struck yet,' replied Helena, with a sarcastic attempt at ajest.
'Thank you, dear,' said Olive; 'you do me the honour of catching hold.'
Helena laughed ironically.
'Catching what?' asked Louisa, mystified.
'Why, dear,' answered Olive, heavily condescending to explain, 'Ioffered Helena the handle of a pun, and she took it. What a flash! Youknow, it's not that I'm afraid....'
The rest of her speech was overwhelmed in thunder.
Helena lay on the edge of the bed, listening to the ecstatics of onefriend and to the impertinences of the other. In spite of her ironicalfeeling, the thunder impressed her with a sense of fatality. The nightopened, revealing a ghostly landscape, instantly to shut again withblackness. Then the thunder crashed. Helena felt as if some secret werebeing disclosed too swiftly and violently for her to understand. Thethunder exclaimed horribly on the matter. She was sure somethinghad happened.
Gradually the storm, drew away. The rain came down with a rush,persisted with a bruising sound upon the earth and the leaves.
'What a deluge!' exclaimed Louisa.
No one answered her. Olive was falling asleep, and Helena was in no moodto reply. Louisa, disconsolate, lay looking at the black window, nursinga grievance, until she, too, drifted into sleep. Helena was awake; thestorm had left her with a settled sense of calamity. She felt bruised.The sound of the heavy rain bruising the ground outside represented herfeeling; she could not get rid of the bruised sense of disaster.
She lay wondering what it was, why Siegmund had not written, what couldhave happened to him. She imagined all of them terrible, and endued withgrandeur, for she had kinship with Hedda Gabler.
'But no,' she said to herself, 'it is impossible anything should havehappened to him--I should have known. I should have known the moment hisspirit left his body; he would have come to me. But I slept withoutdreams last night, and today I am sure there has been no crisis. It isimpossible it should have happened to him: I should have known.'
She was very certain that in event of Siegmund's death, she would havereceived intelligence. She began to consider all the causes which mightarise to prevent his writing immediately to her.
'Nevertheless,' she said at last, 'if I don't hear tomorrow I will goand see.'
She had written to him on Monday. If she should receive no answer byWednesday morning she would return to London. As she was deciding thisshe went to sleep.
The next day passed without news. Helena was in a state of distress. Herwistfulness touched the other two women very keenly. Louisa waited uponher, was very tender and solicitous. Olive, who was becoming painful byreason of her unsatisfied curiosity, had to be told in part of the stateof affairs.
Helena looked up a train. She was quite sure by this time that somethingfatal awaited her.
The next morning she
bade her friends a temporary good-bye, saying shewould return in the evening. Immediately the train had gone, Louisarushed into the little waiting-room of the station and wept. Olive shedtears for sympathy and self-pity. She pitied herself that she should belet in for so dismal a holiday. Louisa suddenly stopped crying andsat up:
'Oh, I know I'm a pig, dear, am I not?' she exclaimed. 'Spoiling yourholiday. But I couldn't help it, dear, indeed I could not.'
'My dear Lou!' cried Olive in tragic contralto. 'Don't refrain for mysake. The bargain's made; we can't help what's in the bundle.'
The two unhappy women trudged the long miles back from the station totheir lodging. Helena sat in the swinging express revolving the samethought like a prayer-wheel. It would be difficult to think of anythingmore trying than thus sitting motionless in the train, which itself isthrobbing and bursting its heart with anxiety, while one waits hourafter hour for the blow which falls nearer as the distance lessens. Allthe time Helena's heart and her consciousness were with Siegmund inLondon, for she believed he was ill and needed her.
'Promise me,' she had said, 'if ever I were sick and wanted you, youwould come to me.'
'I would come to you from hell!' Siegmund had replied.
'And if you were ill--you would let me come to you?' she had added.
'I promise,' he answered.
Now Helena believed he was ill, perhaps very ill, perhaps she only couldbe of any avail. The miles of distance were like hot bars of iron acrossher breast, and against them it was impossible to strive. The train didwhat it could.
That day remains as a smear in the record of Helena's life. In it thereis no spacing of hours, no lettering of experience, merely a smearof suspense.
Towards six o'clock she alighted, at Surbiton station, deciding thatthis would be the quickest way of getting to Wimbledon. She paced theplatform slowly, as if resigned, but her heart was crying out at thegreat injustice of delay. Presently the local train came in. She hadplanned to buy a local paper at Wimbledon, and if from that source shecould learn nothing, she would go on to his house and inquire. She hadprearranged everything minutely.
After turning the newspaper several times she found what she sought.
'The funeral took place, at two o'clock today at Kingston Cemetery, of----. Deceased was a professor of music, and had just returned from aholiday on the South Coast....'
The paragraph, in a bald twelve lines, told her everything.
'Jury returned a verdict of suicide during temporary insanity. Sympathywas expressed for the widow and children.'
Helena stood still on the station for some time, looking at the print.Then she dropped the paper and wandered into the town, not knowing whereshe was going.
'That was what I got,' she said, months afterwards; 'and it was like abrick, it was like a brick.'
She wandered on and on, until suddenly she found herself in the grassylane with only a wire fence bounding her from the open fields on eitherside, beyond which fields, on the left, she could see Siegmund's housestanding florid by the road, catching the western sunlight. Then shestopped, realizing where she had come. For some time she stood lookingat the house. It was no use her going there; it was of no use her goinganywhere; the whole wide world was opened, but in it she had nodestination, and there was no direction for her to take. As if maroonedin the world, she stood desolate, looking from the house of Siegmundover the fields and the hills. Siegmund was gone; why had he not takenher with him?
The evening was drawing on; it was nearly half past seven when Helenalooked at her watch, remembering Louisa, who would be waiting for her toreturn to Cornwall.
'I must either go to her, or wire to her. She will be in a fever ofsuspense,' said Helena to herself, and straightway she hurried to catcha tramcar to return to the station. She arrived there at a quarter toeight; there was no train down to Tintagel that night. Therefore shewired the news:
'Siegmund dead. No train tonight. Am going home.'
* * * * *
This done, she took her ticket and sat down to wait. By the strength ofher will everything she did was reasonable and accurate. But her mindwas chaotic.
'It was like a brick,' she reiterated, and that brutal simile was theonly one she could find, months afterwards, to describe her condition.She felt as if something had crashed into her brain, stunning andmaiming her.
As she knocked at the door of home she was apparently quite calm. Hermother opened to her.
'What, are you alone?' cried Mrs. Verden.
'Yes. Louisa did not come up,' replied Helena, passing into thedining-room. As if by instinct she glanced on the mantelpiece to see ifthere was a letter. There was a newspaper cutting. She went forward andtook it. It was from one of the London papers.
'Inquest was held today upon the body of ----.'
Helena read it, read it again, folded it up and put it in her purse. Hermother stood watching her, consumed with distress and anxiety.
'How did you get to know?' she asked.
'I went to Wimbledon and bought a local paper,' replied the daughter, inher muted, toneless voice.
'Did you go to the house?' asked the mother sharply.
'No,' replied Helena.
'I was wondering whether to send you that paper,' said her motherhesitatingly.
Helena did not answer her. She wandered about the house mechanically,looking for something. Her mother followed her, trying very gentlyto help her.
For some time Helena sat at table in the dining-room staring before her.Her parents moved restlessly in silence, trying not to irritate her bywatching her, praying for something to change the fixity of her look.They acknowledged themselves helpless; like children, they feltpowerless and forlorn, and were very quiet.
'Won't you go to rest, Nellie?' asked the father at last. He was anunobtrusive, obscure man, whose sympathy was very delicate, whoseordinary attitude was one of gentle irony.
'Won't you go to rest, Nellie?' he repeated.
Helena shivered slightly.
'Do, my dear,' her mother pleaded. 'Let me take you to bed.'
Helena rose. She had a great horror of being fussed or petted, but thisnight she went dully upstairs, and let her mother help her to undress.When she was in bed the mother stood for some moments looking at her,yearning to beseech her daughter to pray to God; but she dared not.Helena moved with a wild impatience under her mother's gaze.
'Shall I leave you the candle?' said Mrs Verden.
'No, blow it out,' replied the daughter. The mother did so, andimmediately left the room, going downstairs to her husband. As sheentered the dining-room he glanced up timidly at her. She was a tall,erect woman. Her brown eyes, usually so swift and searching, werehaggard with tears that did not fall. He bowed down, obliteratinghimself. His hands were tightly clasped.
'Will she be all right if you leave her?' he asked.
'We must listen,' replied the mother abruptly.
The parents sat silent in their customary places. Presently Mrs. Verdencleared the supper table, sweeping together a few crumbs from the floorin the place where Helena had sat, carefully putting her pieces ofbroken bread under the loaf to keep moist. Then she sat down again. Onecould see she was keenly alert to every sound. The father had his handto his head; he was thinking and praying.
Mrs. Verden suddenly rose, took a box of matches from the mantelpiece,and hurrying her stately, heavy tread, went upstairs. Her husbandfollowed in much trepidation, hovering near the door of his daughter'sroom. The mother tremblingly lit the candle. Helena's aspect distressedand alarmed her. The girl's face was masked as if in sleep, butoccasionally it was crossed by a vivid expression of fear or horror. Herwide eyes showed the active insanity of her brain. From time to time sheuttered strange, inarticulate sounds. Her mother held her hands andsoothed her. Although she was hardly aware of the mother's presence,Helena was more tranquil. The father went downstairs and turned out thelight. He brought his wife a large shawl, which he put on the bed-rail,and sile
ntly left the room. Then he went and kneeled down by his ownbedside, and prayed.
Mrs Verden watched her daughter's delirium, and all the time, in a kindof mental chant, invoked the help of God. Once or twice the girl came toherself, drew away her hand on recognizing the situation, and turnedfrom her mother, who patiently waited until, upon relapse, she couldsoothe her daughter again. Helena was glad of her mother's presence, butshe could not bear to be looked at.
Towards morning the girl fell naturally asleep. The mother regarded herclosely, lightly touched her forehead with her lips, and went away,having blown out the candle. She found her husband kneeling in hisnightshirt by the bed. He muttered a few swift syllables, and looked upas she entered.
'She is asleep,' whispered the wife hoarsely.
'Is it a--a natural sleep?' hesitated the husband.
'Yes. I think it is. I think she will be all right.'
'Thank God!' whispered the father, almost inaudibly.
He held his wife's hand as she lay by his side. He was the comforter.She felt as if now she might cry and take comfort and sleep. He, thequiet, obliterated man, held her hand, taking the responsibilityupon himself.
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