The Trespasser

  _Chapter 25_

  Siegmund passed the afternoon in a sort of stupor. At tea-time Beatrice,who had until then kept herself in restraint, gave way to an outburst ofangry hysteria.

  'When does your engagement at the Comedy Theatre commence?' she hadasked him coldly.

  He knew she was wondering about money.

  'Tomorrow--if ever,' he had answered.

  She was aware that he hated the work. For some reason or other her angerflashed out like sudden lightning at his 'if ever'.

  'What do you think you _can_ do?' she cried. 'For I think you have doneenough. We can't do as we like altogether--indeed, indeed we cannot. Youhave had your fling, haven't you? You have had your fling, and you wantto keep on. But there's more than one person in the world. Rememberthat. But there are your children, let me remind you. Whose are they?You talk about shirking the engagement, but who is going to beresponsible for your children, do you think?'

  'I said nothing about shirking the engagement,' replied Siegmund, verycoldly.

  'No, there was no need to say. I know what it means. You sit theresulking all day. What do you think _I_ do? I have to see to thechildren, I have to work and slave, I go on from day to day. I tell you_I'll_ stop, I tell you _I'll_ do as I like. _I'll_ go as well. No, Iwouldn't be such a coward, you know that. You know _I_ wouldn't leavelittle children--to the workhouse or anything. They're my children; theymightn't be yours.'

  'There is no need for this,' said Siegmund contemptuously.

  The pressure in his temples was excruciating, and he felt loathsomelysick.

  Beatrice's dark eyes flashed with rage.

  'Isn't there!' she cried. 'Oh, isn't there? No, there is need for agreat deal more. I don't know what you think I am. How much farther doyou' think you can go? No, you don't like reminding of us. You sitmoping, sulking, because you have to come back to your own children. Iwonder how much you think I shall stand? What do you think I am, to putup with it? What do you think I am? Am I a servant to eat out ofyour hand?'

  'Be quiet!' shouted Siegmund. 'Don't I know what you are? Listen toyourself!'

  Beatrice was suddenly silenced. It was the stillness of white-hot wrath.Even Siegmund was glad to hear her voice again. She spoke low andtrembling.

  'You coward--you miserable coward! It is I, is it, who am wrong? It is Iwho am to blame, is it? You miserable thing! I have no doubt you knowwhat I am.'

  Siegmund looked up at her as her words died off. She looked back at himwith dark eyes loathing his cowed, wretched animosity. His eyes werebloodshot and furtive, his mouth was drawn back in a half-grin of hateand misery. She was goading him, in his darkness whither he hadwithdrawn himself like a sick dog, to die or recover as his strengthshould prove. She tortured him till his sickness was swallowed by anger,which glared redly at her as he pushed back his chair to rise. Hetrembled too much, however. His chin dropped again on his chest.Beatrice sat down in her place, hearing footsteps. She was shudderingslightly, and her eyes were fixed.

  Vera entered with the two children. All three immediately, as if theyfound themselves confronted by something threatening, stood arrested.Vera tackled the situation.

  'Is the table ready to be cleared yet?' she asked in an unpleasant tone.

  Her father's cup was half emptied. He had come to tea late, after theothers had left the table. Evidently he had not finished, but he made noreply, neither did Beatrice. Vera glanced disgustedly at her father.Gwen sidled up to her mother, and tried to break the tension.

  'Mam, there was a lady had a dog, and it ran into a shop, and it lickeda sheep, Mam, what was hanging up.'

  Beatrice sat fixed, and paid not the slightest attention. The childlooked up at her, waited, then continued softly.

  'Mam, there was a lady had a dog--'

  'Don't bother!' snapped Vera sharply.

  The child looked, wondering and resentful, at her sister. Vera wastaking the things from the table, snatching them, and thrusting them onthe tray. Gwen's eyes rested a moment or two on the bent head of herfather; then deliberately she turned again to her mother, and repeatedin her softest and most persuasive tones:

  'Mam, I saw a dog, and it ran in a butcher's shop and licked a piece ofmeat. Mam, Mam!'

  There was no answer. Gwen went forward and put her hand on her mother'sknee.

  'Mam!' she pleaded timidly.

  No response.

  'Mam!' she whispered.

  She was desperate. She stood on tiptoe, and pulled with little hands ather mother's breast.

  'Mam!' she whispered shrilly.

  Her mother, with an effort of self-denial, put off her investment oftragedy, and, laying her arm round the child's shoulders, drew herclose. Gwen was somewhat reassured, but not satisfied. With an earnestface upturned to the impassive countenance of her mother, she began towhisper, sibilant, coaxing, pleading.

  'Mam, there was a lady, she had a dog--'

  Vera turned sharply to stop this whispering, which was too much for hernerves, but the mother forestalled her. Taking the child in her arms,she averted her face, put her cheek against the baby cheek, and let thetears run freely. Gwen was too much distressed to cry. The tearsgathered very slowly in her eyes, and fell without her having moved amuscle in her face. Vera remained in the scullery, weeping tears ofrage, and pity, and shame into the towel. The only sound in the room wasthe occasional sharp breathing of Beatrice. Siegmund sat without thetrace of a movement, almost without breathing. His head was ducked low;he dared never lift it, he dared give no sign of his presence.

  Presently Beatrice put down the child, and went to join Vera in thescullery. There came the low sound of women's talking--an angry, ominoussound. Gwen followed her mother. Her little voice could be heardcautiously asking:

  'Mam, is dad cross--is he? What did he do?'

  'Don't bother!' snapped Vera. 'You _are_ a little nuisance! Here, takethis into the dining-room, and don't drop it.'

  The child did not obey. She stood looking from her mother to her sister.The latter pushed a dish into her hand.

  'Go along,' she said, gently thrusting the child forth.

  Gwen departed. She hesitated in the kitchen. Her father still remainedunmoved. The child wished to go to him, to speak to him, but she wasafraid. She crossed the kitchen slowly, hugging the dish; then she cameslowly back, hesitating. She sidled into the kitchen; she crept roundthe table inch by inch, drawing nearer her father. At about a yard fromthe chair she stopped. He, from under his bent brows, could see hersmall feet in brown slippers, nearly kicked through at the toes, waitingand moving nervously near him. He pulled himself together, as a man doeswho watches the surgeon's lancet suspended over his wound. Would thechild speak to him? Would she touch him with her small hands? He heldhis breath, and, it seemed, held his heart from beating. What he shoulddo he did not know.

  He waited in a daze of suspense. The child shifted from one foot toanother. He could just see the edge of her white-frilled drawers. Hewanted, above all things, to take her in his arms, to have somethingagainst which to hide his face. Yet he was afraid. Often, when all theworld was hostile, he had found her full of love, he had hidden his faceagainst her, she had gone to sleep in his arms, she had been like apiece of apple-blossom in his arms. If she should come to him now--hisheart halted again in suspense--he knew not what he would do. It wouldopen, perhaps, the tumour of his sickness. He was quivering too fastwith suspense to know what he feared, or wanted, or hoped.

  'Gwen!' called Vera, wondering why she did not return. 'Gwen!'

  'Yes,' answered the child, and slowly Siegmund saw her feet lifted,hesitate, move, then turn away.

  She had gone. His excitement sank rapidly, and the sickness returnedstronger, more horrible and wearying than ever. For a moment it was sobad that he was afraid of losing consciousness. He recovered slightly,pulled himself up, and went upstairs. His fists were tightly clenched,his fingers closed over his thumbs, which were pressed bloodless. He laydown on the bed.

  For two hours he lay in
a dazed condition resembling sleep. At the endof that time the knowledge that he had to meet Helena was actively atwork--an activity quite apart from his will or his consciousness,jogging and pulling him awake. At eight o'clock he sat up. A crampedpain in his thumbs made him wonder. He looked at them, and mechanicallyshut them again under his fingers into the position they sought aftertwo hours of similar constraint. Siegmund opened his handsagain, smiling.

  'It is said to be the sign of a weak, deceitful character,' he said tohimself.

  His head was peculiarly numbed; at the back it felt heavy, as ifweighted with lead. He could think only one detached sentence atintervals. Between-whiles there was a blank, grey sleep or swoon.

  'I have got to go and meet Helena at Wimbledon,' he said to himself, andinstantly he felt a peculiar joy, as if he had laughed somewhere. 'But Imust be getting ready. I can't disappoint her,' said Siegmund.

  The idea of Helena woke a craving for rest in him. If he should say toher, 'Do not go away from me; come with me somewhere,' then he might liedown somewhere beside her, and she might put her hands on his head. Ifshe could hold his head in her hands--for she had fine, silken handsthat adjusted themselves with a rare pressure, wrapping his weakness upin life--then his head would gradually grow healed, and he could rest.This was the one thing that remained for his restoration--that sheshould with long, unwearying gentleness put him to rest. He longed forit utterly--for the hands and the restfulness of Helena.

  'But it is no good,' he said, staring like a drunken man from sleep.'What time is it?'

  It was ten minutes to nine. She would be in Wimbledon by 10.10. It wastime he should be getting ready. Yet he remained sitting on the bed.

  'I am forgetting again,' he said. 'But I do not want to go. What is thegood? I have only to tie a mask on for the meeting. It is too much.'

  He waited and waited; his head dropped forward in a sort of sleep.Suddenly he started awake. The back of his head hurt severely.

  'Goodness,' he said, 'it's getting quite dark!'

  It was twenty minutes to ten. He went bewildered into the bathroom towash in cold water and bring back his senses. His hands were sore, andhis face blazed with sun inflammation. He made himself neat as usual. Itwas ten minutes to ten. He would be very late. It was practically dark,though these bright days were endless. He wondered whether the childrenwere in bed. It was too late, however, to wonder.

  Siegmund hurried downstairs and took his hat. He was walking down thepath when the door was snatched open behind him, and Vera ranout crying:

  'Are you going out? Where are you going?'

  Siegmund stood still and looked at her.

  'She is frightened,' he said to himself, smiling ironically.

  'I am only going a walk. I have to go to Wimbledon. I shall not be verylong.'

  'Wimbledon, at this time!' said Vera sharply, full of suspicion.

  'Yes, I am late. I shall be back in an hour.'

  He was sorry for her. She knew he gave her an honourable promise.

  'You need not keep us sitting up,' she said.

  He did not answer, but hurried to the station.