The Trespasser

  _Chapter 30_

  Beatrice was careful not to let the blow of Siegmund's death fall withfull impact upon her. As it were, she dodged it. She was afraid to meetthe accusation of the dead Siegmund, with the sacred jury of memories.When the event summoned her to stand before the bench of her own soul'sunderstanding, she fled, leaving the verdict upon herself eternallysuspended.

  When the neighbours had come, alarmed by her screaming, she had allowedherself to be taken away from her own house into the home of aneighbour. There the children were brought to her. There she wept, andstared wildly about, as if by instinct seeking to cover her mind withconfusion. The good neighbour controlled matters in Siegmund's house,sending for the police, helping to lay out the dead body. Before Veraand Frank came home, and before Beatrice returned to her own place, thebedroom of Siegmund was locked.

  Beatrice avoided seeing the body of her husband; she gave him one swiftglance, blinded by excitement; she never saw him after his death. Shewas equally careful to avoid thinking of him. Whenever her thoughtswandered towards a consideration of how he must have felt, what hisinner life must have been, during the past six years, she felt herselfdilate with terror, and she hastened to invoke protection.

  'The children!' she said to herself--'the children. I must live for thechildren; I must think for the children.'

  This she did, and with much success. All her tears and her wildness rosefrom terror and dismay rather than from grief. She managed to fend backa grief that would probably have broken her. Vera was toopractical-minded, she had too severe a notion of what ought to be andwhat ought not, ever to put herself in her father's place and try tounderstand him. She concerned herself with judging him sorrowfully,exonerating him in part because Helena, that other, was so much more toblame. Frank, as a sentimentalist, wept over the situation, not over thepersonae. The children were acutely distressed by the harassingbehaviour of the elders, and longed for a restoration of equanimity. Bycommon consent no word was spoken of Siegmund. As soon as possible afterthe funeral Beatrice moved from South London to Harrow. The memory ofSiegmund began to fade rapidly.

  Beatrice had had all her life a fancy for a more open, public form ofliving than that of a domestic circle. She liked strangers about thehouse; they stimulated her agreeably. Therefore, nine months after thedeath of her husband, she determined to carry out the scheme of herheart, and take in boarders. She came of a well-to-do family, with whomshe had been in disgrace owing to her early romantic but degradingmarriage with a young lad who had neither income nor profession. In thetragic, but also sordid, event of his death, the Waltons returned againto the aid of Beatrice. They came hesitatingly, and kept their gloveson. They inquired what she intended to do. She spoke highly andhopefully of her future boarding-house. They found her a couple ofhundred pounds, glad to salve their consciences so cheaply. Siegmund'sfather, a winsome old man with a heart of young gold, was always readyfurther to diminish his diminished income for the sake of hisgrandchildren. So Beatrice was set up in a fairly large house inHighgate, was equipped with two maids, and gentlemen were invited tocome and board in her house. It was a huge adventure, wherein Beatricewas delighted. Vera was excited and interested; Frank was excited, butdoubtful and grudging; the children were excited, elated, wondering. Theworld was big with promise.

  Three gentlemen came, before a month was out, to Beatrice'sestablishment. She hoped shortly to get a fourth or a fifth. Her planwas to play hostess, and thus bestow on her boarders the inestimableblessing of family life. Breakfast was at eight-thirty, and everyoneattended. Vera sat opposite Beatrice, Frank sat on the maternal righthand; Mr MacWhirter, who was _superior_, sat on the left hand; next himsat Mr Allport, whose opposite was Mr Holiday. All were young men ofless than thirty years. Mr MacWhirter was tall, fair, and stoutish; hewas very quietly spoken, was humorous and amiable, yet extraordinarilylearned. He never, by any chance, gave himself away, maintaining alwaysan absolute reserve amid all his amiability. Therefore Frank would havedone anything to win his esteem, while Beatrice was deferential to him.Mr Allport was tall and broad, and thin as a door; he had also aremarkably small chin. He was naive, inclined to suffer in the firstpangs of disillusionment; nevertheless, he was waywardly humorous,sometimes wistful, sometimes petulant, always gallant. Therefore Veraliked him, whilst Beatrice mothered him. Mr Holiday was short, verystout, very ruddy, with black hair. He had a disagreeable voice, wasvulgar in the grain, but officiously helpful if appeal were made to him.Therefore Frank hated him. Vera liked his handsome, lusty appearance,but resented bitterly his behaviour. Beatrice was proud of the superiorand skilful way in which she handled him, clipping him into shapewithout hurting him.

  One evening in July, eleven months after the burial of Siegmund,Beatrice went into the dining-room and found Mr Allport sitting with hiselbow on the window-sill, looking out on the garden. It was half-pastseven. The red rents between the foliage of the trees showed the sun wassetting; a fragrance of evening-scented stocks filtered into the roomthrough the open window; towards the south the moon was budding out ofthe twilight.

  'What, you here all alone!' exclaimed Beatrice, who had just come fromputting the children to bed. 'I thought you had gone out.'

  'No--o! What's the use,' replied Mr Allport, turning to look at hislandlady, 'of going out? There's nowhere to go.'

  'Oh, come! There's the Heath, and the City--and you must join a tennisclub. Now I know just the thing--the club to which Vera belongs.'

  'Ah, yes! You go down to the City--but there's nothing there--what Imean to say--you want a pal--and even then--well'--he drawled theword--'we-ell, it's merely escaping from yourself--killing time.'

  'Oh, don't say that!' exclaimed Beatrice. 'You want to enjoy life.'

  'Just so! Ah, just so!' exclaimed Mr Allport. 'But all the same--it'slike this--you only get up to the same thing tomorrow. What I mean tosay--what's the good, after all? It's merely living because you'vegot to.'

  'You are too pessimistic altogether for a young man. I look at itdifferently myself; yet I'll be bound I have more cause for grumbling.What's the trouble now?'

  'We-ell--you can't lay your finger on a thing like that! What I mean tosay--it's nothing very definite. But, after all--what is there to do butto hop out of life as quickly as possible? That's the best way.'

  Beatrice became suddenly grave.

  'You talk in that way, Mr. Allport,' she said. 'You don't think of theothers.'

  'I don't know,' he drawled. 'What does it matter? Look here--who'd care?What I mean to say--for long?'

  'That's all very easy, but it's cowardly,' replied Beatrice gravely.

  'Nevertheless,' said Mr. Allport, 'it's true--isn't it?'

  'It is not--and I _should_ know,' replied Beatrice, drawing a cloak ofreserve ostentatiously over her face. Mr. Allport looked at her andwaited. Beatrice relaxed toward the pessimistic young man.

  'Yes,' she said, 'I call it very cowardly to want to get out of yourdifficulties in that way. Think what you inflict on other people. Youmen, you're all selfish. The burden is always left for the women.'

  'Ah, but then,' said Mr. Allport very softly and sympathetically,looking at Beatrice's black dress, 'I've no one depending on _me_.'

  'No--you haven't--but you've a mother and sister. The women always haveto bear the brunt.'

  Mr. Allport looked at Beatrice, and found her very pathetic.

  'Yes, they do rather,' he replied sadly, tentatively waiting.

  'My husband--' began Beatrice. The young man waited. 'My husband was oneof your sort: he ran after trouble, and when he'd found it--he couldn'tcarry it off--and left it--to me.'

  Mr. Allport looked at her very sympathetically.

  'You don't mean it!' he exclaimed softly. 'Surely he didn't--?'

  Beatrice nodded, and turned aside her face.

  'Yes,' she said. 'I know what it is to bear that kind of thing--and it'sno light thing, I can assure you.'

  There was a suspicion of tears in her voice.

&nbs
p; 'And when was this, then--that he--?' asked Mr. Allport, almost withreverence.

  'Only last year,' replied Beatrice.

  Mr. Allport made a sound expressing astonishment and dismay. Little bylittle Beatrice told him so much: 'Her husband had got entangled withanother woman. She herself had put up with it for a long time. At lastshe had brought matters to a crisis, declaring what she should do. Hehad killed himself--hanged himself--and left her penniless. Her people,who were very wealthy, had done for her as much as she would allow them.She and Frank and Vera had done the rest. She did not mind for herself;it was for Frank and Vera, who should be now enjoying their carelessyouth, that her heart was heavy.'

  There was silence for a while. Mr. Allport murmured his sympathy, andsat overwhelmed with respect for this little woman who was unbroken bytragedy. The bell rang in the kitchen. Vera entered.

  'Oh, what a nice smell! Sitting in the dark, Mother?'

  'I was just trying to cheer up Mr. Allport; he is very despondent.'

  'Pray do not overlook me,' said Mr. Allport, rising and bowing.

  'Well! I did not see you! Fancy your sitting in the twilight chattingwith the mater. You must have been an unscrupulous bore, maman.'

  'On the contrary,' replied Mr. Allport, 'Mrs. MacNair has been so goodas to bear with me making a fool of myself.'

  'In what way?' asked Vera sharply.

  'Mr. Allport is so despondent. I think he must be in love,' saidBeatrice playfully.

  'Unfortunately, I am not--or at least I am not yet aware of it,' saidMr. Allport, bowing slightly to Vera.

  She advanced and stood in the bay of the window, her skirt touching theyoung man's knees. She was tall and graceful. With her hands claspedbehind her back she stood looking up at the moon, now white upon therichly darkening sky.

  'Don't look at the moon, Miss MacNair, it's all rind,' said Mr Allportin melancholy mockery. 'Somebody's bitten all the meat out of our sliceof moon, and left us nothing but peel.'

  'It certainly does look like a piece of melon-shell--one portion,'replied Vera.

  'Never mind, Miss MacNair,' he said, 'Whoever got the slice found itraw, I think.'

  'Oh, I don't know,' she said. 'But isn't it a beautiful evening? I willjust go and see if I can catch the primroses opening.'

  'What primroses?' he exclaimed.

  'Evening primroses--there are some.'

  'Are there?' he said in surprise. Vera smiled to herself.

  'Yes, come and look,' she said.

  The young man rose with alacrity.

  Mr Holiday came into the dining-room whilst they were down the garden.

  'What, nobody in!' they heard him exclaim.

  'There is Holiday,' murmured Mr Allport resentfully.

  Vera did not answer. Holiday came to the open window, attracted by thefragrance.

  'Ho! that's where you are!' he cried in his nasal tenor, which annoyedVera's trained ear. She wished she had not been wearing a white dress tobetray herself.

  'What have you got?' he asked.

  'Nothing in particular,' replied Mr Allport.

  Mr Holiday sniggered.

  'Oh, well, if it's nothing particular and private--' said Mr Holiday,and with that he leaped over the window-sill and went to join them.

  'Curst fool!' muttered Mr Allport. 'I beg your pardon,' he added swiftlyto Vera.

  'Have you ever noticed, Mr Holiday,' asked Vera, as if very friendly,'how awfully tantalizing these flowers are? They won't open whileyou're looking.'

  'No,' sniggered he, I don't blame 'em. Why should they give themselvesaway any more than you do? You won't open while you're watched.' Henudged Allport facetiously with his elbow.

  After supper, which was late and badly served, the young men were inpoor spirits. Mr MacWhirter retired to read. Mr Holiday sat picking histeeth; Mr. Allport begged Vera to play the piano.

  'Oh, the piano is not my instrument; mine was the violin, but I do notplay now,' she replied.

  'But you will begin again,' pleaded Mr. Allport.

  'No, never!' she said decisively. Allport looked at her closely. Thefamily tragedy had something to do with her decision, he was sure. Hewatched her interestedly.

  'Mother used to play--' she began.

  'Vera!' said Beatrice reproachfully.

  'Let us have a song,' suggested Mr. Holiday.

  'Mr. Holiday wishes to sing, Mother,' said Vera, going to themusic-rack.

  'Nay--I--it's not me,' Holiday began.

  '"The Village Blacksmith",' said Vera, pulling out the piece. Holidayadvanced. Vera glanced at her mother.

  'But I have not touched the piano for--for years, I am sure,' protestedBeatrice.

  'You can play beautifully,' said Vera.

  Beatrice accompanied the song. Holiday sang atrociously. Allport glaredat him. Vera remained very calm.

  At the end Beatrice was overcome by the touch of the piano. She went outabruptly.

  'Mother has suddenly remembered that tomorrow's jellies are not made,'laughed Vera.

  Allport looked at her, and was sad.

  When Beatrice returned, Holiday insisted she should play again. Shewould have found it more difficult to refuse than to comply.

  Vera retired early, soon to be followed by Allport and Holiday. At halfpast ten Mr. MacWhirter came in with his ancient volume. Beatrice wasstudying a cookery-book.

  'You, too, at the midnight lamp!' exclaimed MacWhirter politely.

  'Ah, I am only looking for a pudding for tomorrow,' Beatrice replied.

  'We shall feel hopelessly in debt if you look after us so well,' smiledthe young man ironically.

  'I must look after you,' said Beatrice.

  'You do--wonderfully. I feel that we owe you large debts of gratitude.'The meals were generally late, and something was always wrong.

  'Because I scan a list of puddings?' smiled Beatrice uneasily.

  'For the puddings themselves, and all your good things. The piano, forinstance. That was very nice indeed.' He bowed to her.

  'Did it disturb you? But one does not hear very well in the study.'

  'I opened the door,' said MacWhirter, bowing again.

  'It is not fair,' said Beatrice. 'I am clumsy now--clumsy. I once couldplay.'

  'You play excellently. Why that "once could"?' said MacWhirter.

  'Ah, you are amiable. My old master would have said differently,' shereplied.

  'We,' said MacWhirter, 'are humble amateurs, and to us you are more thanexcellent.'

  'Good old Monsieur Fanniere, how he would scold me! He said I would nottake my talent out of the napkin. He would quote me the New Testament. Ialways think Scripture false in French, do not you?'

  'Er--my acquaintance with modern languages is not extensive, I regret tosay.'

  'No? I was brought up at a convent school near Rouen.'

  'Ah--that would be very interesting.'

  'Yes, but I was there six years, and the interest wears off everything.'

  'Alas!' assented MacWhirter, smiling.

  'Those times were very different from these,' said Beatrice.

  'I should think so,' said MacWhirter, waxing grave and sympathetic.