When she turned round again she found Louisa and Olive seated, but
Siegmund was outside on the platform, and the door was closed. He saw
her face move as if she would cry to him. She restrained herself, and
immediately called: 'You are coming? Oh, you are coming to Waterloo?' He shook his head.
'I cannot come,' he said.
She stood looking blankly at him for some moments, unable to reach the
door because of the portmanteau thrust through with umbrellas and
sticks, which stood on the floor between the knees of the passengers.
She was helpless. Siegmund was repeating deliriously in his mind: 'Oh--go--go--go--when will she go?' He could not bear her piteousness. Her presence made him feel insane.
'Would you like to come to the window?' a man asked of Helena kindly.
She smiled suddenly in his direction, without perceiving him. He pulled
the portmanteau under his legs, and Helena edged past. She stood by the
door, leaning forward with some of her old protective grace, her 'Hawwa'
spirit evident. Benign and shielding, she bent forward, looking at
Siegmund. But her face was blank with helplessness, with misery of
helplessness. She stood looking at Siegmund, saying nothing. His
forehead was scorched and swollen, she noticed sorrowfully, and beneath
one eye the skin was blistered. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed in a
kind of apathy; they filled her with terror. He looked up at her because
she wished it. For himself, he could not see her; he could only recoil
from her. All he wished was to hide himself in the dark, alone. Yet she
wanted him, and so far he yielded. But to go to Waterloo he could
not yield.
The people in the carriage, made uneasy by this strange farewell, did
not speak. There were a few taut moments of silence. No one seems to
have strength to interrupt these spaces of irresolute anguish. Finally,
the guard's whistle went. Siegmund and Helena clasped hands. A warm
flush of love and healthy grief came over Siegmund for the last time.
The train began to move, drawing Helena's hand from his.
'Monday,' she whispered--'Monday,' meaning that on Monday she should
receive a letter from him. He nodded, turned, hesitated, looked at her,
turned and walked away. She remained at the window watching him depart.
'Now, dear, we are manless,' said Olive in a whisper. But her attempt at
a joke fell dead. Everybody was silent and uneasy.