The Trespasser

  _Chapter 17_

  Towards morning, Siegmund went to sleep. For four hours, until seveno'clock, the womb of sleep received him and nourished him again.

  'But it is finest of all to wake,' he said, as the bright sunshine ofthe window, and the lumining green sunshine coming through the liftedhands of the leaves, challenged him into the open.

  The morning was exceedingly fair, and it looked at him so gently thathis blue eyes trembled with self-pity. A fragment of scarlet geraniumglanced up at him as he passed, so that amid the vermilion tyranny ofthe uniform it wore he could see the eyes of the flower, wistful,offering him love, as one sometimes see the eyes of a man beneath thebrass helmet of a soldier, and is startled. Everything looked at himwith the same eyes of tenderness, offering him, timidly, a little love.

  'They are all extraordinarily sweet,' said Siegmund to the full-mouthedscabious and the awkward, downcast ragwort. Three or four butterfliesfluttered up and down in agitated little leaps, around him.Instinctively Siegmund put his hand forward to touch them.

  'The careless little beggars!' he said.

  When he came to the cliff tops there was the morning, very bravelydressed, rustling forward with a silken sound and much silken shining tomeet him. The battleships had gone; the sea was blue with a _panier_ ofdiamonds; the sky was full with a misty tenderness like love. Siegmundhad never recognized before the affection that existed between him andeverything. We do not realize how tremendously dear and indispensable tous are the hosts of common things, till we must leave them, and we breakour hearts.

  'We have been very happy together,' everything seemed to say.

  Siegmund looked up into the eyes of the morning with a laugh.

  'It is very lovely,' he said, 'whatever happens.'

  So he went down to the beach; his dark blue eyes, darker from lastnight's experience, smiled always with the pride of love. He undressedby his usual altar-stone.

  'How closely familiar everything is,' he thought. 'It seems almost as ifthe curves of this stone were rounded to fit in my soul.'

  He touched the smooth white slope of the stone gently with discoveringfingers, in the same way as he touched the cheek of Helena, or of hisown babies. He found great pleasure in this feeling of intimacy withthings. A very soft wind, shy as a girl, put his arms round him, andseemed to lay its cheek against his chest. He placed his hands beneathhis arms, where the wind was caressing him, and his eyes opened withwondering pleasure.

  'They find no fault with me,' he said. 'I suppose they are as fallibleas I, and so don't judge,' he added, as he waded thigh-deep into thewater, thrusting it to hear the mock-angry remonstrance.

  'Once more,' he said, and he took the sea in his arms. He swam veryquietly. The water buoyed him up, holding him closely clasped. He swamtowards the white rocks of the headlands; they rose before him likebeautiful buttressed gates, so glistening that he half expected to seefantail pigeons puffing like white irises in the niches, and whitepeacocks with dark green feet stepping down the terraces, trailing asheen of silver.

  'Helena is right,' he said to himself as he swam, scarcely swimming, butmoving upon the bosom of the tide; 'she is right, it is all enchanted. Ihave got into her magic at last. Let us see what it is like.'

  He determined to visit again his little bay. He swam carefully round theterraces, whose pale shadows through the swift-spinning emerald facetsof the water seemed merest fancy. Siegmund touched them with his foot;they were hard, cold, dangerous. He swam carefully. As he made for thearchway, the shadows of the headland chilled the water. There underwater, clamouring in a throng at the base of the submerged walls, weresea-women with dark locks, and young sea-girls, with soft hair, vividlygreen, striving to climb up out of the darkness into the morning, theirhair swirling in abandon. Siegmund was half afraid of theirfrantic efforts.

  But the tide carried him swiftly through the high gate into the porch.There was exultance in this sweeping entry. The skin-white, full-fleshedwalls of the archway were dappled with green lights that danced in andout among themselves. Siegmund was carried along in an invisiblechariot, beneath the jewel-stained walls. The tide swerved, threw him ashe swam against the inward-curving white rock; his elbow met the rock,and he was sick with pain. He held his breath, trying to get back thejoy and magic. He could not believe that the lovely, smooth side of therock, fair as his own side with its ripple of muscles, could have hurthim thus. He let the water carry him till he might climb out on to theshingle. There he sat upon a warm boulder, and twisted to look at hisarm. The skin was grazed, not very badly, merely a ragged scarlet patchno bigger than a carnation petal. The bruise, however, was painful,especially when, a minute or two later, he bent his arm.

  'No,' said he pitiably to himself, 'it is impossible it should have hurtme. I suppose I was careless.'

  Nevertheless, the aspect of the morning changed. He sat on the boulderlooking out on the sea. The azure sky and the sea laughed on, holding abright conversation one with another. The two headlands of the tiny baygossiped across the street of water. All the boulders and pebbles of thesea-shore played together.

  'Surely,' said Siegmund, 'they take no notice of me; they do not care ajot or a tittle for me. I am a fool to think myself one with them.'

  He contrasted this with the kindness of the morning as he had stood onthe cliffs.

  'I was mistaken,' he said. 'It was an illusion.'

  He looked wistfully out again. Like neighbours leaning from oppositewindows of an overhanging street, the headlands were occupied one withanother. White rocks strayed out to sea, followed closely by other whiterocks. Everything was busy, interested, occupied with its own pursuitand with its own comrades. Siegmund alone was without pursuitor comrade.

  'They will all go on the same; they will be just as gay. Even Helena,after a while, will laugh and take interest in others. What doI matter?'

  Siegmund thought of the futility of death:

  We are not long for music and laughter, Love and desire and hate; I think we have no portion in them after We pass the gate.

  'Why should I be turned out of the game?' he asked himself, rebelling.He frowned, and answered: 'Oh, Lord!--the old argument!'

  But the thought of his own expunging from the picture was very bitter.

  'Like the puff from the steamer's funnel, I should be gone.'

  He looked at himself, at his limbs and his body in the pride of hismaturity. He was very beautiful to himself.

  'Nothing, in the place where I am,' he said. 'Gone, like a puff of steamthat melts on the sunshine.'

  Again Siegmund looked at the sea. It was glittering with laughter as ata joke.

  'And I,' he said, lying down in the warm sand, 'I am nothing. I do notcount; I am inconsiderable.'

  He set his teeth with pain. There were no tears, there was no relief. Aconvulsive gasping shook him as he lay on the sands. All the while hewas arguing with himself.

  'Well,' he said, 'if I am nothing dead I am nothing alive.'

  But the vulgar proverb arose--'Better a live dog than a dead lion,' toanswer him. It seemed an ignominy to be dead. It meant, to beoverlooked, even by the smallest creature of God's earth. Surely thatwas a great ignominy.

  Helena, meanwhile, was bathing, for the last time, by the same sea-shorewith him. She was no swimmer. Her endless delight was to explore, todiscover small treasures. For her the world was still a great wonder-boxwhich hid innumerable sweet toys for surprises in all its crevices. Shehad bathed in many rock-pools' tepid baths, trying first one, thenanother. She had lain on the sand where the cold arms of the oceanlifted her and smothered her impetuously, like an awful lover.

  'The sea is a great deal like Siegmund,' she said, as she rose panting,trying to dash her nostrils free from water. It was true; the sea as itflung over her filled her with the same uncontrollable terror as didSiegmund when he sometimes grew silent and strange in a tide of passion.

  She wandered back to her rock-pools; they were bright and docile; theydid n
ot fling her about in a game of terror. She bent over watching theanemone's fleshy petals shrink from the touch of her shadow, and shelaughed to think they should be so needlessly fearful. The flowing tidetrickled noiselessly among the rocks, widening and deepening insidiouslyher little pools. Helena retreated towards a large cave round the bend.There the water gurgled under the bladder-wrack of the large stones; theair was cool and clammy. She pursued her way into the gloom, bending,though there was no need, shivering at the coarse feel of the seaweedbeneath her naked feet. The water came rustling up beneath the fucus asshe crept along on the big stones; it returned with a quiet gurgle whichmade her shudder, though even that was not disagreeable. It needed, forall that, more courage than was easy to summon before she could step offher stone into the black pool that confronted her. It was festoonedthick with weeds that slid under her feet like snakes. She scrambledhastily upwards towards the outlet.

  Turning, the ragged arch was before heir, brighter than the brightestwindow. It was easy to believe the light-fairies stood outside in athrong, excited with fine fear, throwing handfuls of light into thedragon's hole.

  'How surprised they will be to see me!' said Helena, scrambling forward,laughing.

  She stood still in the archway, astounded. The sea was blazing withwhite fire, and glowing with azure as coals glow red with heat below theflames. The sea was transfused with white burning, while over it hungthe blue sky in a glory, like the blue smoke of the fire of God. Helenastood still and worshipped. It was a moment of astonishment, when shestood breathless and blinded, involuntarily offering herself for athank-offering. She felt herself confronting God at home in His whiteincandescence, His fire settling on her like the Holy Spirit. Her lipswere parted in a woman's joy of adoration.

  The moment passed, and her thoughts hurried forward in confusion.

  'It is good,' said Helena; 'it is very good.' She looked again, and sawthe waves like a line of children racing hand in hand, the sunlightpursuing, catching hold of them from behind, as they ran wildly tillthey fell, caught, with the sunshine dancing upon them like a white dog.

  'It is really wonderful here!' said she; but the moment had gone, shecould not see again the grand burning of God among the waves. After awhile she turned away.

  As she stood dabbling her bathing-dress in a pool, Siegmund came overthe beach to her.

  'You are not gone, then?' he said.

  'Siegmund!' she exclaimed, looking up at him with radiant eyes, as if itcould not be possible that he had joined her in this rare place. Hisface was glowing with the sun's inflaming, but Helena did not noticethat his eyes were full of misery.

  'I, actually,' he said, smiling.

  'I did not expect you,' she said, still looking at him in radiantwonder. 'I could easier have expected'--she hesitated, struggled, andcontinued--'Eros walking by the sea. But you are like him,' she said,looking radiantly up into Siegmund's face. 'Isn't it beautiful thismorning?' she added.

  Siegmund endured her wide, glad look for a moment, then he stooped andkissed her. He remained moving his hand in the pool, ashamed, and fullof contradiction. He was at the bitter point of farewell; could see,beyond the glamour around him, the ugly building of his real life.

  'Isn't the sea wonderful this morning?' asked Helena, as she wrung thewater from her costume.

  'It is very fine,' he answered. He refrained from saying what his heartsaid: 'It is my last morning; it is not yours. It is my last morning,and the sea is enjoying the joke, and you are full of delight.'

  'Yes,' said Siegmund, 'the morning is perfect.'

  'It is,' assented Helena warmly. 'Have you noticed the waves? They arelike a line of children chased by a white dog.'

  'Ay!' said Siegmund.

  'Didn't you have a good time?' she asked, touching with her finger-tipsthe nape of his neck as he stooped beside her.

  'I swam to my little bay again,' he replied.

  'Did you?' she exclaimed, pleased.

  She sat down by the pool, in which she washed her feet free from sand,holding them to Siegmund to dry.

  'I am very hungry,' she said.

  'And I,' he agreed.

  'I feel quite established here,' she said gaily, something in hisposition having reminded her of their departure.

  He laughed.

  'It seems another eternity before the three-forty-five train, doesn'tit?' she insisted.

  'I wish we might never go back,' he said.

  Helena sighed.

  'It would be too much for life to give. We have had something,Siegmund,' she said.

  He bowed his head, and did not answer.

  'It has been something, dear,' she repeated.

  He rose and took her in his arms.

  'Everything,' he said, his face muffled in the shoulder of her dress. Hecould smell her fresh and fine from the sea. 'Everything!' he said.

  She pressed her two hands on his head.

  'I did well, didn't I, Siegmund?' she asked. Helena felt theresponsibility of this holiday. She had proposed it; when he hadwithdrawn, she had insisted, refusing to allow him to take back hisword, declaring that she should pay the cost. He permitted her at last.

  'Wonderfully well, Helena,' he replied.

  She kissed his forehead.

  'You are everything,' he said.

  She pressed his head on her bosom.