Sheaves by E.F. Benson — Read

Hugh had taken the telegram with him, and on his journey he read it and re-read it. In London, at Victoria station, it could be construed one way, at Dover it could be construed another way. Waiting at Laon, the probability inclined toward the Victoria interpretation, but with the wheels going swiftly round again he thought the Dover interpretation might be right. But when, in the dim, frosty hour before dawn he awoke, after a short sleep, just as the train came into Basle, he knew that the two interpretations were one. What it came to was this -- Edith had an attack of syncope, failure of the heart. She had rallied; as soon as she could be moved she must be moved down to some lower and less stimulating air. This attack had taken place on the morning she would have written to him. When she recovered she sent the telegram saying she had not written because she was so busy. Then a second attack had come on. The second telegram was sent by the doctor.

The wheels of the train made a continuous throbbing, punctuated beat, and as they sped on between the flower-strewn pastures he was conscious of little else but this pulsation. Just occasionally some vivid flash of consciousness came over him, so that for a moment the sword of suspense pierced him or the hot hand of sorrow lay heavy on his head, or, again, for a moment only, he was conscious of the exquisite beauty of the blossoming spring, but for the most part his mind was inert and dull, feeling no more than the droning of the wheels. He merely had to sit still and be taken to Davos. He would feel again when he got there; just now he was no more than a parcel. Sometimes for a space the wheels seemed like some voice he knew -- Peggy's, for instance, saying, in staccato, some ridiculous sentence. For ten minutes at a time she would say, "Tel-e-gram -- on -- the -- hall -- table -- tel-e-gram -- on -- the -- hall -- table."