O the horror of that wintry night-journey! The sky was flecked with dark ominous clouds. The moon looked gibbous. It was bitterly cold. Here and there large patches of snow still lay on the ground. Gerald gazed at them now and again through the frozen window-pane. But for the most part he sat in a corner of the railway carriage, wrapped in his rug, his head bent forward and buried in his hands.
O darkness of dread fear! when the worst is not known. Nothing is so awful, so appalling as that.
It was near midnight when he reached London. The train was an hour late. No hope of proceeding to Helmsbury that night. But he drove across London. He would sleep, if sleep he could and must, as near as might be to his beloved.
The drive through London at night is always an impressive experience. The vast suspended animation of the great city of men solemnises the mind. But Gerald thought not of that. Onwards he drove until the stir of life had died away, and scarce a soul was moving in the desolate squares. It was Sunday morning!
The last night-train to Helmsbury had started an hour ago. He could go by the first train in the morning. For that he waited. Of sleep he could not think. Pacing the platform or sitting uneasily in the waiting-room, never at rest for more than a few minutes together, he spent the hours of that chill night. Once somebody spoke to him on the platform, but he knew not who it was, and he made no answer.
In the grey light of early morning he reached Helmsbury. Harry Venniker was at the station to meet him. They clasped hands.
‘Is she better?’ whispered Gerald.
Harry Venniker shook his head, and said only ‘Come.’
They took their seats in the brougham. Like a gasp came the question from Gerald, ‘She is not dead?’
Harry Venniker said, ‘No.’