The Trespasser | Page 6

morrow. As he ate, he closed his eyes, half wishing he had not
promised Helena, half wishing he had no tomorrow.
Leaning back in his chair, he felt something in the way. It was a small
teddy-bear and half of a strong white comb. He grinned to himself. This
was the summary of his domestic life--a broken, coarse comb, a child
crying because her hair was lugged, a wife who had let the hair go till
now, when she had got into a temper to see the job through; and then
the teddy-bear, pathetically cocking a black worsted nose, and lifting
absurd arms to him.
He wondered why Gwen had gone to bed without her pet. She would
want the silly thing. The strong feeling of affection for his children
came over him, battling with something else. He sank in his chair, and
gradually his baffled mind went dark. He sat, overcome with weariness
and trouble, staring blankly into the space. His own stifling roused him.
Straightening his shoulders, he took a deep breath, then relaxed again.
After a while he rose, took the teddy-bear, and went slowly to bed.
Gwen and Marjory, aged nine and twelve, slept together in a small
room. It was fairly light. He saw his favourite daughter lying quite
uncovered, her wilful head thrown back, her mouth half open. Her
black hair was tossed across the pillow: he could see the action.
Marjory snuggled under the sheet. He placed the teddy-bear between
the two girls.

As he watched them, he hated the children for being so dear to him.
Either he himself must go under, and drag on an existence he hated, or
they must suffer. But he had agreed to spend this holiday with Helena,
and meant to do so. As he turned, he saw himself like a ghost cross the
mirror. He looked back; he peered at himself. His hair still grew thick
and dark from his brow: he could not see the grey at the temples. His
eyes were dark and tender, and his mouth, under the black moustache,
was full of youth.
He rose, looked at the children, frowned, and went to his own small
room. He was glad to be shut alone in the little cubicle of darkness.
Outside the world lay in a glamorous pallor, casting shadows that made
the farm, the trees, the bulks of villas, look like live creatures. The
same pallor went through all the night, glistening on Helena as she lay
curled up asleep at the core of the glamour, like the moon; on the sea
rocking backwards and forwards till it rocked her island as she slept.
She was so calm and full of her own assurance. It was a great rest to be
with her. With her, nothing mattered but love and the beauty of things.
He felt parched and starving. She had rest and love, like water and
manna for him. She was so strong in her self-possession, in her love of
beautiful things and of dreams.
The clock downstairs struck two.
'I must get to sleep,' he said.
He dragged his portmanteau from beneath the bed and began to pack it.
When at last it was finished, he shut it with a snap. The click sounded
final. He stood up, stretched himself, and sighed.
'I am fearfully tired,' he said.
But that was persuasive. When he was undressed he sat in his pyjamas
for some time, rapidly beating his fingers on his knee.
'Thirty-eight years old,' he said to himself, 'and disconsolate as a child!'
He began to muse of the morrow.

When he seemed to be going to sleep, he woke up to find thoughts
labouring over his brain, like bees on a hive. Recollections, swift
thoughts, flew in and alighted upon him, as wild geese swing down and
take possession of a pond. Phrases from the opera tyrannized over him;
he played the rhythm with all his blood. As he turned over in this
torture, he sighed, and recognized a movement of the De Beriot
concerto which Helena had played for her last lesson. He found himself
watching her as he had watched then, felt again the wild impatience
when she was wrong, started again as, amid the dipping and sliding of
her bow, he realized where his thoughts were going. She was wrong, he
was hasty; and he felt her blue eyes looking intently at him.
Both started as his daughter Vera entered suddenly. She was a
handsome girl of nineteen. Crossing the room, brushing Helena as if
she were a piece of furniture in the way, Vera had asked her father a
question, in a hard, insulting tone, then had gone out again, just as if
Helena had not been in the room.
Helena stood fingering the score of