no use her going anywhere; the whole wide world was opened, but in it she had no destination, and there was no direction for her to take. As if marooned in the world, she stood desolate, looking from the house of Siegmund over the fields and the hills. Siegmund was gone; why had he not taken her with him?
The evening was drawing on; it was nearly half-past seven when Helena looked at her watch, remembering Louisa, who would be waiting for her to return to Cornwall.
“I must either go to her, or wire to her. She will be in a fever of suspense,” said Helena to herself, and straightway she hurried to catch a tram-car to return to the station. She arrived there at a quarter to eight; there was no train down to Tintagel that night. Therefore she wired the news:
“Siegmund dead. No train to-night. Am going home.”
This done, she took her ticket and sat down to wait. By the strength of her will everything she did was reasonable and accurate. But her mind was chaotic.
“It was like a brick,” she reiterated, and that brutal simile was the only one she could find, months afterwards, to describe her condition. She felt as if something had crashed into her brain, stunning and maiming her.
As she knocked at the door of home she was apparently quite calm. Her mother opened to her.
“What, are you alone?” cried Mrs. Verden.
“Yes. Louisa did not come up,” replied Helena,
