The Trespasser | Page 2

swaying to the time as if
her body were the white stroke of a metronome. It made the young man
frown as he watched. Yet he continued to watch. She had a very strong,
vigorous body. Her neck, pure white, arched in strength from the fine
hollow between her shoulders as she held the violin. The long white
lace of her sleeve swung, floated, after the bow.
Byrne could not see her face, more than the full curve of her cheek. He
watched her hair, which at the back was almost of the colour of the
soapstone idol, take the candlelight into its vigorous freedom in front
and glisten over her forehead.
Suddenly Helena broke off the music, and dropped her arm in irritable
resignation. Louisa looked round from the piano, surprised.
'Why,' she cried, 'wasn't it all right?'
Helena laughed wearily.
'It was all wrong,' she answered, as she put her violin tenderly to rest.
'Oh, I'm sorry I did so badly,' said Louisa in a huff. She loved Helena
passionately.
'You didn't do badly at all,' replied her friend, in the same tired,

apathetic tone. 'It was I.'
When she had closed the black lid of her violin-case, Helena stood a
moment as if at a loss. Louisa looked up with eyes full of affection, like
a dog that did not dare to move to her beloved. Getting no response, she
drooped over the piano. At length Helena looked at her friend, then
slowly closed her eyes. The burden of this excessive affection was too
much for her. Smiling faintly, she said, as if she were coaxing a child:
'Play some Chopin, Louisa.'
'I shall only do that all wrong, like everything else,' said the elder
plaintively. Louisa was thirty-five. She had been Helena's friend for
years.
'Play the mazurkas,' repeated Helena calmly.
Louisa rummaged among the music. Helena blew out her violin-candle,
and came to sit down on the side of the fire opposite to Byrne. The
music began. Helena pressed her arms with her hands, musing.
'They are inflamed still' said the young man.
She glanced up suddenly, her blue eyes, usually so heavy and tired,
lighting up with a small smile.
'Yes,' she answered, and she pushed back her sleeve, revealing a fine,
strong arm, which was scarlet on the outer side from shoulder to wrist,
like some long, red-burned fruit. The girl laid her cheek on the smarting
soft flesh caressively.
'It is quite hot,' she smiled, again caressing her sun-scalded arm with
peculiar joy.
'Funny to see a sunburn like that in mid-winter,' he replied, frowning. 'I
can't think why it should last all these months. Don't you ever put
anything on to heal it?'
She smiled at him again, almost pitying, then put her mouth lovingly on

the burn.
'It comes out every evening like this,' she said softly, with curious joy.
'And that was August, and now it's February!' he exclaimed. 'It must be
psychological, you know. You make it come--the smart; you invoke it.'
She looked up at him, suddenly cold.
'I! I never think of it,' she answered briefly, with a kind of sneer.
The young man's blood ran back from her at her acid tone. But the
mortification was physical only. Smiling quickly, gently--'
'Never?' he re-echoed.
There was silence between them for some moments, whilst Louisa
continued to play the piano for their benefit. At last:
'Drat it,' she exclaimed, flouncing round on the piano-stool.
The two looked up at her.
'Ye did run well--what hath hindered you?' laughed Byrne.
'You!' cried Louisa. 'Oh, I can't play any more,' she added, dropping her
arms along her skirt pathetically. Helena laughed quickly.
'Oh I can't, Helen!' pleaded Louisa.
'My dear,' said Helena, laughing briefly, 'you are really under no
obligation whatever.'
With the little groan of one who yields to a desire contrary to her
self-respect, Louisa dropped at the feet of Helena, laid her arm and her
head languishingly on the knee of her friend. The latter gave no sign,
but continued to gaze in the fire. Byrne, on the other side of the hearth,
sprawled in his chair, smoking a reflective cigarette.

The room was very quiet, silent even of the tick of a clock. Outside, the
traffic swept by, and feet pattered along the pavement. But this vulgar
storm of life seemed shut out of Helena's room, that remained
indifferent, like a church. Two candles burned dimly as on an altar,
glistening yellow on the dark piano. The lamp was blown out, and the
flameless fire, a red rubble, dwindled in the grate, so that the yellow
glow of the candles seemed to shine even on the embers. Still no one
spoke.
At last Helena shivered slightly in her chair, though did not change her
position. She sat