XXIX
The next days passed, unreal and dreamlike to me. I was happy, elated, filled with a renewal of youth. Hugo was there, Hugo was alive, I had found him anew after this long time, and I would see him again in a few days.
It seemed to me during those ten days that everything was easier and pleasanter than before. Nothing worried or irritated me; I lived in a world of my own.
Even Walter noticed a change. Something had come back, I think, that he had missed.
He said to me, one day:
‘You are happier than you were, Helen . . . .’
And I was pleased and laughed.
‘Yes, Walter,’ I said, ‘I am so happy at seeing Hugo again.’
Walter looked at me queerly, and sighed.
‘You ought to see more of your friends,’ he said, ‘I know that. It is natural you should miss them.’
I stroked his cheek.
‘I shall see them again, after the war,’ I said. ‘We shall all meet together then, except George . . .’
‘Poor George,’ said Walter, and he sighed again.
At last the day came, and a note from Hugo, at Yearsly. He would be in London that morning, by twelve o’clock; crossing that night to France.
I took the next train. I left the children in the care of Mrs. Simms.
Hugo was there to meet me; he had come straight from Waterloo. We lunched together, and then we walked in the Park.
This day it was fine. A clear, cold winter’s day, with tiny transparent clouds, high up in a pale sky. We walked quickly, rejoicing in the cold air and the warmth of walking.
Then we went to the National Gallery. Most of the pictures were hidden away in bomb-proof cellars; that was a disappointment; but we were happy to-day.
We went to tea with Grandmother, at Campden Hill Square; we enjoyed the familiarity of the room, of the atmosphere, and the china, and the cat.
The hours passed; how we did not know. It was evening already, and we stood on the steps of the ‘Coliseum,’ going in to the Russian Ballet. It was the Scarlatti Ballet, ‘The Good Humoured Ladies,’ that we saw. The music and the dancing excited us; it was perfect. All was perfect, on this most wonderful of days.
We left the lighted theatre, and went out . . . out into the dark night and the shaded streets.
We made our way across Trafalgar Square, bare and empty in the shadow, through the Admiralty Arch again, and across the Green Park.
Hugo’s train was to leave at midnight.
We were silent in the darkness of the trees. The bitterness of ending was over our joy now.
We walked close together, bumping against each other as we walked. Hugo took my hand and held it, and we walked like children, holding hands. We passed out of the Park, and down the road, into the hurry and rush of Victoria Street, past the Underground Station, and under the vaulted roof of Victoria Station.
Smoke from the waiting trains swirled in white eddies under the shadowy roof. Whistles sounded: calling voices and heavy footsteps: the churning noise of engines, getting up steam, and the clanging of luggage barrows on the platforms.
There were soldiers everywhere; waiting groups, sitting and lounging about, loaded with their service kit; bags, rifles and helmets slung about them in a shapeless mass; tired, anxious faces, and joking voices; one was telling a story to a listening group; it seemed to be a funny story, for bursts of laughter interrupted him.
Hugo inquired about his train. No one seemed to know. We wandered from one official to another; there was no train to leave at midnight, they said.
At last some one came who knew about it; the leave train was postponed till the morning, at 7 a.m.
I felt an immense, disproportionate relief; I glanced at Hugo; he was looking at me with his whimsical, questioning expression.
‘Seven hours more,’ he said.
‘Seven hours,’ I repeated.
What should we do for seven hours?
‘I told them not to expect me back till they saw me,’ I said. ‘I must wait and see you off.’
‘Helen? I should like it.’
‘Will you, Helen?’
We turned back to the Hotel, where Hugo had a room reserved till the next day. I would stay there too. He engaged another room.
We walked up the stairs like people in a dream. The stuffy hotel smell, the thick, shabby carpet, the dull glare of the electric light, stamped themselves on my mind, but dazedly, as fantastic, unreal things.
In the long, deserted passage we stood still. Rows of shut doors stretched on either side of us. Boots stood outside some of them, military boots, and empty water cans. One bulb of electric light shone at the further end.
We read the numbers on the doors. 247 was my room. We reached the door, and then stood still again. It seemed a waste of precious time to sleep, but we were very tired, suddenly, unbearably tired.
‘Good night, Helen.’
‘Good night.’
We paused, and waited again.
Dumbly, instinctively, I raised my arms to Hugo’s neck. He grasped me, and we kissed. It flashed through my mind, as something very strange, that we had not kissed each other since that time we did not kiss on the evening of Guy’s birthday, beside the Jasmine Gate. We had before that always, without thinking about it.
‘My dear, dear Helen . . .’ Hugo murmured; and I said nothing at all. My hands clasped each other, hard, behind his neck; I felt just then that I could never let him go . . . and then it seemed suddenly that something snapped . . .
‘Good night, Hugo,’ I said, and my arms dropped to my sides.
‘My dear, good night.’
I waited a moment longer with my hand on the handle of the door; it seemed to us both, I think, that there was something more we must say; but we could not; no words came.
I opened my bedroom door, and pulled it to behind me. I dropped into a chair by the window, and sat there, quite still, for a time. Then I roused myself, took off my hat and shoes, and lay down on the bed.
I lay still and listened to the stir of the traffic outside. The rumble of trains, the perpetual hoots of taxi cabs turning round the corner, in and out of the station. From the open window, came the acrid smell of train smoke, drifting in with the night fog. I felt cold, and shivered; then I got up and threw my coat over the quilt of the bed.
It seemed to me that I must have lain awake all night, but at last I fell asleep.
A maid woke me at a quarter to six, with a can of hot water. I woke with a start of terror, and plunged myself awake properly in the hot water.
A few minutes later I met Hugo in the ‘Breakfast Room’ of the hotel. There were other people there; about a dozen other officers, two or three women with them. We smiled faintly at each other, and sat down. Outside it was still dark, and an early morning fog obscured what lights there were. We drank hot coffee and ate fried bacon, and then again we went into the station.
The train was there this time. Hugo found a place and put his luggage in. Then we walked up and down on the platform till it was time to start. The morning was raw and chilly. The cold fog got into our throats and eyes. It seemed to enclose us in a deadened solitude; to shut out the world beyond; to muffle even the footsteps of the other waiting people.
‘It must not be so long till you come again, Hugo.’
And he looked at me with his odd little questioning smile.
‘Remember,’ I said suddenly, ‘you are going through with it. We have got to go through to the end.’
‘Yes,’ he replied quietly, ‘we have got to go on. I will, and you will too,’ and he turned abruptly to me.
I bent my head.
‘Yes, I will too, of course.’
‘Guy will be having leave soon,’ said Hugo.
‘Yes, and Mollie is coming home this summer.’
‘It would be good if we could all be here together.’
‘After the war, anyhow.’
‘Yes . . . after the war. . . .’
The train was going to start. The guard waved to all the waiting passengers to get in. Hugo jumped in quickly. He leaned out of the window and took both my hands.
‘Good-bye, Helen.’
‘Good-bye, Hugo . . . till next time. . . .’
The train jerked and puffed. A porter hurried along, slamming the doors. Hugo drew back his head, the train jerked again, and moved slowly forward.
I stood where I was, looking after the train. Hugo did not look out of it again, and I did not wave my hand.
I watched it drawing past me; carriage after carriage reaching the bend of the line where a station lamp threw a glittering light upon the windows; then out into the fog and darkness; and the smoke drifted back, chilly, mockingly, along the empty lines.
There were other women on the platform, walking back towards the barrier now, and I walked with them, dazed, hardly sensible, not knowing where I went.
And I never saw Hugo again.