‘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.