Helena was dozing down in the cove at Tintagel. She and Louisa and Olive
lay on the cool sands in the shadow, and steeped themselves in rest, in
a cool, sea-fragrant tranquillity.
The journey down had been very tedious. After waiting for half an hour
in the midnight turmoil of an August Friday in Waterloo station, they
had seized an empty carriage, only to be followed by five
north-countrymen, all of whom were affected by whisky. Olive, Helena,
Louisa, occupied three corners of the carriage. The men were distributed
between them. The three women were not alarmed. Their tipsy travelling
companions promised to be tiresome, but they had a frank honesty of
manner that placed them beyond suspicion. The train drew out westward.
Helena began to count the miles that separated her from Siegmund. The
north-countrymen began to be jolly: they talked loudly in their uncouth
English; they sang the music-hall songs of the day; they furtively drank
whisky. Through all this they were polite to the girls. As much could
hardly be said in return of Olive and Louisa. They leaned forward
whispering one to another. They sat back in their seats laughing, hiding
their laughter by turning their backs on the men, who were a trifle
disconcerted by this amusement.
The train spun on and on. Little homely clusters of lamps, suggesting
the quiet of country life, turned slowly round through the darkness. The
men dropped into a doze. Olive put a handkerchief over her face and went
to sleep. Louisa gradually nodded and jerked into slumber. Helena sat
weariedly and watched the rolling of the sleeping travellers and the
dull blank of the night sheering off outside. Neither the men nor the
women looked well asleep. They lurched and nodded stupidly. She thought
of Bazarof in _Fathers and Sons_, endorsing his opinion on the
appearance of sleepers: all but Siegmund. Was Siegmund asleep? She
imagined him breathing regularly on the pillows; she could see the under
arch of his eyebrows, the fine shape of his nostrils, the curve of his
lips, as she bent in fancy over his face.
The dawn came slowly. It was rather cold. Olive wrapped herself in rugs
and went to sleep again. Helena shivered, and stared out of the window.
There appeared a wanness in the night, and Helena felt inexpressibly
dreary. A rosiness spread out far away. It was like a flock of
flamingoes hovering over a dark lake. The world vibrated as the sun
came up.
Helena waked the tipsy men at Exeter, having heard them say that there
they must change. Then she walked the platform, very jaded. The train
rushed on again. It was a most, most wearisome journey. The fields were
very flowery, the morning was very bright, but what were these to her?
She wanted dimness, sleep, forgetfulness. At eight o'clock,
breakfast-time, the 'dauntless three' were driving in a waggonette amid
blazing, breathless sunshine, over country naked of shelter, ungracious
and harsh.