In February, Hugo came home on leave, and I saw him. He wrote
to me that time and said he was coming. He would be in London
for a few days first, and then at Yearsly.
His letter came at breakfast time amid the clatter of plates
and feeding the children. I opened it, and could think of nothing
else.
Three days later, Hugo himself came. I was coming back from my
afternoon walk with the children, pushing the heavy perambulator
up the hill, thinking, wondering if he would come to-day. Suddenly
I saw him at the end of the road, coming to meet me; a long way
off still, but unmistakably Hugo.
I had not seen him in khaki before, and the silhouette was strange,
and although I had expected it, it was a shock; but I knew his
walk, and I knew the poise of his head. I stopped the perambulator
and stood still.
My heart leaped up and throbbed. I had a wild impulse to turn
round and run away. I had been counting the hours until this
moment, but now that it had come, I was afraid. I dreaded this
meeting with Hugo in a way that surprised myself. I felt it to
be charged with emotion, painful, stirring emotion, as of all
the past revoked; of lost youth, and lost joy, and that terrifying
sense of regret for the passage of time and of life. As I hesitated,
he saw me. He took off his cap and waved it and I had no choice,
I waved back and went on to meet him.
We seemed a long time reaching each other. Then we shook hands,
and stood still. I looked into Hugo’s face, and he looked into
mine; it seemed at first, as though we had nothing to say.
Hugo’s face frightened me; he was smiling now, the faint half
hesitating smile I knew so well, but there was something new
in the very smile, in his mouth, above all in his eyes, a desperate,
haunted expression, that I had not seen before.