There was a quick, light palpitating of the knocker. Mrs Verden went to
the door.
'Has she come?' And there were hasty steps along the passage. Louisa entered. She flung
herself upon Helena and kissed her.
'How long have you been in?' she asked, in a voice trembling with
affection.
'Ten minutes,' replied Helena.
'Why didn't you send me the time of the train, so that I could come and
meet you?' Louisa reproached her.
'Why?' drawled Helena.
Louisa looked at her friend without speaking. She was deeply hurt by
this sarcasm.
As soon as possible Helena went upstairs. Louisa stayed with her that
night. On the next day they were going to Cornwall together for their
usual midsummer holiday. They were to be accompanied by a third girl--a
minor friend of Louisa, a slight acquaintance of Helena.
During the night neither of the two friends slept much. Helena made
confidences to Louisa, who brooded on these, on the romance and tragedy
which enveloped the girl she loved so dearly. Meanwhile, Helena's
thoughts went round and round, tethered amid the five days by the sea,
pulling forwards as far as the morrow's meeting with Siegmund, but
reaching no further.
Friday was an intolerable day of silence, broken by little tender
advances and playful, affectionate sallies on the part of the mother,
all of which were rapidly repulsed. The father said nothing, and avoided
his daughter with his eyes. In his humble reserve there was a dignity
which made his disapproval far more difficult to bear than the repeated
flagrant questionings of the mother's eyes. But the day wore on. Helena
pretended to read, and sat thinking. She played her violin a little,
mechanically. She went out into the town, and wandered about.
At last the night fell.
'Well,' said Helena to her mother, 'I suppose I'd better pack.' 'Haven't you done it?' cried Mrs Verden, exaggerating her surprise.
'You'll never have it done. I'd better help you. What times does the
train go?' Helena smiled.
'Ten minutes to ten.' Her mother glanced at the clock. It was only half-past eight. There was
ample time for everything.
'Nevertheless, you'd better look sharp,' Mrs Verden said.
Helena turned away, weary of this exaggeration.
'I'll come with you to the station,' suggested Mrs Verden. 'I'll see the
last of you. We shan't see much of you just now.' Helena turned round in surprise.
'Oh, I wouldn't bother,' she said, fearing to make her disapproval too
evident.
'Yes--I will--I'll see you off.' Mrs Verden's animation and indulgence were remarkable. Usually she was
curt and undemonstrative. On occasions like these, however, when she was
reminded of the ideal relations between mother and daughter, she played
the part of the affectionate parent, much to the general distress.