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diff --git a/9498-0.txt b/9498-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d08d46c --- /dev/null +++ b/9498-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9596 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Trespasser, by D. H. Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Trespasser + +Author: D. H. Lawrence + +Release Date: October 6, 2003 [eBook #9498] +[Most recently updated: October 14, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Joshua Hutchinson and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER *** + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Trespasser + +by D. H. Lawrence + +1912 + + + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + CHAPTER XXI. + CHAPTER XXII. + CHAPTER XXIII. + CHAPTER XXIV. + CHAPTER XXV. + CHAPTER XXVI. + CHAPTER XXVII. + CHAPTER XXVIII. + CHAPTER XXIX. + CHAPTER XXX. + CHAPTER XXXI. + + + + +I + + +“Take off that mute, do!” cried Louisa, snatching her fingers from the +piano keys, and turning abruptly to the violinist. + +Helena looked slowly from her music. + +“My dear Louisa,” she replied, “it would be simply unendurable.” She +stood tapping her white skirt with her bow in a kind of a pathetic +forbearance. + +“But I can’t understand it,” cried Louisa, bouncing on her chair with +the exaggeration of one who is indignant with a beloved. “It is only +lately you would even submit to muting your violin. At one time you +would have refused flatly, and no doubt about it.” + +“I have only lately submitted to many things,” replied Helena, who +seemed weary and stupefied, but still sententious. Louisa drooped from +her bristling defiance. + +“At any rate,” she said, scolding in tones too naked with love, I don’t +like it.” + +“Go on from _Allegro_,” said Helena, pointing with her bow to the place +on Louisa’s score of the Mozart sonata. Louisa obediently took the +chords, and the music continued. + +A young man, reclining in one of the wicker arm-chairs by the fire, +turned luxuriously from the girls to watch the flames poise and dance +with the music. He was evidently at his ease, yet he seemed a stranger +in the room. + +It was the sitting-room of a mean house standing in line with hundreds +of others of the same kind, along a wide road in South London. Now and +again the trams hummed by, but the room was foreign to the trams and to +the sound of the London traffic. It was Helena’s room, for which she +was responsible. The walls were of the dead-green colour of August +foliage; the green carpet, with its border of polished floor, lay like +a square of grass in a setting of black loam. Ceiling and frieze and +fireplace were smooth white. There was no other colouring. + +The furniture, excepting the piano, had a transitory look; two light +wicker arm-chairs by the fire, the two frail stands of dark, polished +wood, the couple of flimsy chairs, and the case of books in the +recess—all seemed uneasy, as if they might be tossed out to leave the +room clear, with its green floor and walls, and its white rim of +skirting-board, serene. + +On the mantlepiece were white lustres, and a small soapstone Buddha +from China, grey, impassive, locked in his renunciation. Besides these, +two tablets of translucent stone beautifully clouded with rose and +blood, and carved with Chinese symbols; then a litter of mementoes, +rock-crystals, and shells and scraps of seaweed. + +A stranger, entering, felt at a loss. He looked at the bare wall-spaces +of dark green, at the scanty furniture, and was assured of his +unwelcome. The only objects of sympathy in the room were the white lamp +that glowed on a stand near the wall, and the large, beautiful fern, +with narrow fronds, which ruffled its cloud of green within the gloom +of the window-bay. These only, with the fire, seemed friendly. + +The three candles on the dark piano burned softly, the music fluttered +on, but, like numbed butterflies, stupidly. Helena played mechanically. +She broke the music beneath her bow, so that it came lifeless, very +hurting to hear. The young man frowned, and pondered. Uneasily, he +turned again to the players. + +The violinist was a girl of twenty-eight. Her white dress, +high-waisted, swung as she forced the rhythm, determinedly 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 motionless. + +“Will you make coffee, Louisa?” she asked. Louisa lifted herself, +looked at her friend, and stretched slightly. + +“Oh!” she groaned voluptuously. “This is so comfortable!” + +“Don’t trouble then, I’ll go. No, don’t get up,” said Helena, trying to +disengage herself. Louisa reached and put her hands on Helena’s wrists. + +“I will go,” she drawled, almost groaning with voluptuousness and +appealing love. + +Then, as Helena still made movements to rise, the elder woman got up +slowly, leaning as she did so all her weight on her friend. + +“Where is the coffee?” she asked, affecting the dullness of lethargy. +She was full of small affectations, being consumed with uneasy love. + +“I think, my dear,” replied Helena, “it is in its usual place.” + +“Oh—o-o-oh!” yawned Louisa, and she dragged herself out. + +The two had been intimate friends for years, had slept together, and +played together and lived together. Now the friendship was coming to an +end. + +“After all,” said Byrne, when the door was closed, “if you’re alive +you’ve got to live.” + +Helena burst into a titter of amusement at this sudden remark. + +“Wherefore?” she asked indulgently. + +“Because there’s no such thing as passive existence,” he replied, +grinning. + +She curled her lip in amused indulgence of this very young man. + +“I don’t see it at all,” she said. + +“You can’t, he protested, “any more than a tree can help budding in +April—it can’t help itself, if it’s alive; same with you.” + +“Well, then”—and again there was the touch of a sneer—“if I can’t help +myself, why trouble, my friend?” + +“Because—because I suppose _I_ can’t help myself—if it bothers me, it +does. You see, I”—he smiled brilliantly—“am April.” + +She paid very little attention to him, but began in a peculiar reedy, +metallic tone, that set his nerves quivering: + +“But I am not a bare tree. All my dead leaves, they hang to me—and—and +go through a kind of _danse macabre_—” + +“But you bud underneath—like beech,” he said quickly. + +“Really, my friend,” she said coldly, “I am too tired to bud.” + +“No,” he pleaded, “no!” With his thick brows knitted, he surveyed her +anxiously. She had received a great blow in August, and she still was +stunned. Her face, white and heavy, was like a mask, almost sullen. She +looked in the fire, forgetting him. + +“You want March,” he said—he worried endlessly over her—“to rip off +your old leaves. I s’ll have to be March,” he laughed. + +She ignored him again because of his presumption. He waited awhile, +then broke out once more. + +“You must start again—you must. Always you rustle your red leaves of a +blasted summer. You are not dead. Even if you want to be, you’re not. +Even if it’s a bitter thing to say, you have to say it: you are not +dead….” + +Smiling a peculiar, painful smile, as if he hurt her, she turned to +gaze at a photograph that hung over the piano. It was the profile of a +handsome man in the prime of life. He was leaning slightly forward, as +if yielding beneath a burden of life, or to the pull of fate. He looked +out musingly, and there was no hint of rebellion in the contours of the +regular features. The hair was brushed back, soft and thick, straight +from his fine brow. His nose was small and shapely, his chin rounded, +cleft, rather beautifully moulded. Byrne gazed also at the photo. His +look became distressed and helpless. + +“You cannot say you are dead with Siegmund,” he cried brutally. She +shuddered, clasped her burning arms on her breast, and looked into the +fire. “You are not dead with Siegmund,” he persisted, “so you can’t say +you live with him. You may live with his memory. But Siegmund is dead, +and his memory is not he—himself,” He made a fierce gesture of +impatience. “Siegmund now—he is not a memory—he is not your dead red +leaves—he is Siegmund Dead! And you do not know him, because you are +alive, like me, so Siegmund Dead is a stranger to you.” + +With her head bowed down, cowering like a sulky animal, she looked at +him under her brows. He stared fiercely back at her, but beneath her +steady, glowering gaze he shrank, then turned aside. + +“You stretch your hands blindly to the dead; you look backwards. No, +you never touch the thing,” he cried. + +“I have the arms of Louisa always round my neck,” came her voice, like +the cry of a cat. She put her hands on her throat as if she must +relieve an ache. He saw her lip raised in a kind of disgust, a +revulsion from life. She was very sick after the tragedy. + +He frowned, and his eyes dilated. + +“Folk are good; they are good for one. You never have looked at them. +You would linger hours over a blue weed, and let all the people down +the road go by. Folks are better than a garden in full blossom—” + +She watched him again. A certain beauty in his speech, and his +passionate way, roused her when she did not want to be roused, when +moving from her torpor was painful. At last— + +“You are merciless, you know, Cecil,” she said. + +“And I will be,” protested Byrne, flinging his hand at her. She laughed +softly, wearily. + +For some time they were silent. She gazed once more at the photograph +over the piano, and forgot all the present. Byrne, spent for the time +being, was busy hunting for some life-interest to give her. He ignored +the simplest—that of love—because he was even more faithful than she to +the memory of Siegmund, and blinder than most to his own heart. + +“I do wish I had Siegmund’s violin,” she said quietly, but with great +intensity. Byrne glanced at her, then away. His heart beat sulkily. His +sanguine, passionate spirit dropped and slouched under her contempt. +He, also, felt the jar, heard the discord. She made him sometimes pant +with her own horror. He waited, full of hate and tasting of ashes, for +the arrival of Louisa with the coffee. + + + + +II + + +Siegmund’s violin, desired of Helena, lay in its case beside Siegmund’s +lean portmanteau in the white dust of the lumber-room in Highgate. It +was worth twenty pounds, but Beatrice had not yet roused herself to +sell it; she kept the black case out of sight. + +Siegmund’s violin lay in the dark, folded up, as he had placed it for +the last time, with hasty, familiar hands, in its red silk shroud. +After two dead months the first string had snapped, sharply striking +the sensitive body of the instrument. The second string had broken near +Christmas, but no one had heard the faint moan of its going. The violin +lay mute in the dark, a faint odour of must creeping over the smooth, +soft wood. Its twisted, withered strings lay crisped from the anguish +of breaking, smothered under the silk folds. The fragrance of Siegmund +himself, with which the violin was steeped, slowly changed into an +odour of must. + +Siegmund died out even from his violin. He had infused it with his +life, till its fibres had been as the tissue of his own flesh. Grasping +his violin, he seemed to have his fingers on the strings of his heart +and of the heart of Helena. It was his little beloved that drank his +being and turned it into music. And now Siegmund was dead; only an +odour of must remained of him in his violin. + +It lay folded in silk in the dark, waiting. Six months before it had +longed for rest; during the last nights of the season, when Siegmund’s +fingers had pressed too hard, when Siegmund’s passion, and joy, and +fear had hurt, too, the soft body of his little beloved, the violin had +sickened for rest. On that last night of opera, without pity Siegmund +had struck the closing phrases from the fiddle, harsh in his +impatience, wild in anticipation. + +The curtain came down, the great singers bowed, and Siegmund felt the +spattering roar of applause quicken his pulse. It was hoarse, and +savage, and startling on his inflamed soul, making him shiver with +anticipation, as if something had brushed his hot nakedness. Quickly, +with hands of habitual tenderness, he put his violin away. + +The theatre-goers were tired, and life drained rapidly out of the +opera-house. The members of the orchestra rose, laughing, mingling +their weariness with good wishes for the holiday, with sly warning and +suggestive advice, pressing hands warmly ere they disbanded. Other +years Siegmund had lingered, unwilling to take the long farewell of his +associates of the orchestra. Other years he had left the opera-house +with a little pain of regret. Now he laughed, and took his comrades’ +hands, and bade farewells, all distractedly, and with impatience. The +theatre, awesome now in its emptiness, he left gladly, hastening like a +flame stretched level on the wind. + +With his black violin-case he hurried down the street, then halted to +pity the flowers massed pallid under the gaslight of the market-hall. +For himself, the sea and the sunlight opened great spaces tomorrow. The +moon was full above the river. He looked at it as a man in abstraction +watches some clear thing; then he came to a standstill. It was useless +to hurry to his train. The traffic swung past the lamplight shone warm +on all the golden faces; but Siegmund had already left the city. His +face was silver and shadows to the moon; the river, in its soft grey, +shaking golden sequins among the folds of its shadows, fell open like a +garment before him, to reveal the white moon-glitter brilliant as +living flesh. Mechanically, overcast with the reality of the moonlight, +he took his seat in the train, and watched the moving of things. He was +in a kind of trance, his consciousness seeming suspended. The train +slid out amongst lights and dark places. Siegmund watched the endless +movement, fascinated. + +This was one of the crises of his life. For years he had suppressed his +soul, in a kind of mechanical despair doing his duty and enduring the +rest. Then his soul had been softly enticed from its bondage. Now he +was going to break free altogether, to have at least a few days purely +for his own joy. This, to a man of his integrity, meant a breaking of +bonds, a severing of blood-ties, a sort of new birth. In the excitement +of this last night his life passed out of his control, and he sat at +the carriage-window, motionless, watching things move. + +He felt busy within him a strong activity which he could not help. +Slowly the body of his past, the womb which had nourished him in one +fashion for so many years, was casting him forth. He was trembling in +all his being, though he knew not with what. All he could do now was to +watch the lights go by, and to let the translation of himself continue. + +When at last the train ran out into the full, luminous night, and +Siegmund saw the meadows deep in moonlight, he quivered with a low +anticipation. The elms, great grey shadows, seemed to loiter in their +cloaks across the pale fields. He had not seen them so before. The +world was changing. + +The train stopped, and with a little effort he rose to go home. The +night air was cool and sweet. He drank it thirstily. In the road again +he lifted his face to the moon. It seemed to help him; in its +brilliance amid the blonde heavens it seemed to transcend fretfulness. +It would front the waves with silver as they slid to the shore, and +Helena, looking along the coast, waiting, would lift her white hands +with sudden joy. He laughed, and the moon hurried laughing alongside, +through the black masses of the trees. + +He had forgotten he was going home for this night. The chill wetness of +his little white garden-gate reminded him, and a frown came on his +face. As he closed the door, and found himself in the darkness of the +hall, the sense of his fatigue came fully upon him. It was an effort to +go to bed. Nevertheless, he went very quietly into the drawing-room. +There the moonlight entered, and he thought the whiteness was Helena. +He held his breath and stiffened, then breathed again. “Tomorrow,” he +thought, as he laid his violin-case across the arms of a wicker chair. +But he had a physical feeling of the presence of Helena: in his +shoulders he seemed to be aware of her. Quickly, half lifting his arms, +he turned to the moonshine. “Tomorrow!” he exclaimed quietly; and he +left the room stealthily, for fear of disturbing the children. + +In the darkness of the kitchen burned a blue bud of light. He quickly +turned up the gas to a broad yellow flame, and sat down at table. He +was tired, excited, and vexed with misgiving. As he lay in his +arm-chair, he looked round with disgust. + +The table was spread with a dirty cloth that had great brown stains +betokening children. In front of him was a cup and saucer, and a small +plate with a knife laid across it. The cheese, on another plate, was +wrapped in a red-bordered, fringed cloth, to keep off the flies, which +even then were crawling round, on the sugar, on the loaf, on the +cocoa-tin. Siegmund looked at his cup. It was chipped, and a stain had +gone under the glaze, so that it looked like the mark of a dirty mouth. +He fetched a glass of water. + +The room was drab and dreary. The oil-cloth was worn into a hole near +the door. Boots and shoes of various sizes were scattered over the +floor, while the sofa was littered with children’s clothing. In the +black stove the ash lay dead; on the range were chips of wood, and +newspapers, and rubbish of papers, and crusts of bread, and crusts of +bread-and-jam. As Siegmund walked across the floor, he crushed two +sweets underfoot. He had to grope under sofa and dresser to find his +slippers; and he was in evening dress. + +It would be the same, while ever Beatrice was Beatrice and Siegmund her +husband. He ate his bread and cheese mechanically, wondering why he was +miserable, why he was not looking forward with joy to the 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 _Pelléas_. When Vera had gone, she +asked, in the peculiar tone that made Siegmund shiver: + +“Why do you consider the music of _Pelléas_ cold?” + +Siegmund had struggled to answer. So they passed everything off, +without mention, after Helena’s fashion, ignoring all that might be +humiliating; and to her much was humiliating. + +For years she had come as pupil to Siegmund, first as a friend of the +household. Then she and Louisa went occasionally to whatever hall or +theatre had Siegmund in the orchestra, so that shortly the three formed +the habit of coming home together. Then Helena had invited Siegmund to +her home; then the three friends went walks together; then the two went +walks together, whilst Louisa sheltered them. + +Helena had come to read his loneliness and the humiliation of his lot. +He had felt her blue eyes, heavily, steadily gazing into his soul, and +he had lost himself to her. + +That day, three weeks before the end of the season, when Vera had so +insulted Helena, the latter had said, as she put on her coat, looking +at him all the while with heavy blue eyes: “I think, Siegmund, I cannot +come here any more. Your home is not open to me any longer.” He had +writhed in confusion and humiliation. As she pressed his hand, closely +and for a long time, she said: “I will write to you.” Then she left +him. + +Siegmund had hated his life that day. Soon she wrote. A week later, +when he lay resting his head on her lap in Richmond Park, she said: + +“You are so tired, Siegmund.” She stroked his face, and kissed him +softly. Siegmund lay in the molten daze of love. But Helena was, if it +is not to debase the word, virtuous: an inconsistent virtue, cruel and +ugly for Siegmund. + +“You are so tired, dear. You must come away with me and rest, the first +week in August.” + +His blood had leapt, and whatever objections he raised, such as having +no money, he allowed to be overridden. He was going to Helena, to the +Isle of Wight, tomorrow. + +Helena, with her blue eyes so full of storm, like the sea, but, also +like the sea, so eternally self-sufficient, solitary; with her thick +white throat, the strongest and most wonderful thing on earth, and her +small hands, silken and light as wind-flowers, would be his tomorrow, +along with the sea and the downs. He clung to the exquisite flame which +flooded him…. + +But it died out, and he thought of the return to London, to Beatrice, +and the children. How would it be? Beatrice, with her furious dark +eyes, and her black hair loosely knotted back, came to his mind as she +had been the previous day, flaring with temper when he said to her: + +“I shall be going away tomorrow for a few days’ holiday.” + +She asked for detail, some of which he gave. Then, dissatisfied and +inflamed, she broke forth in her suspicion and her abuse, and her +contempt, while two large-eyed children stood listening by. Siegmund +hated his wife for drawing on him the grave, cold looks of condemnation +from his children. + +Something he had said touched Beatrice. She came of good family, had +been brought up like a lady, educated in a convent school in France. He +evoked her old pride. She drew herself up with dignity, and called the +children away. He wondered if he could bear a repetition of that +degradation. It bled him of his courage and self-respect. + +In the morning Beatrice was disturbed by the sharp sneck of the hall +door. Immediately awake, she heard his quick, firm step hastening down +the gravel path. In her impotence, discarded like a worn out object, +she lay for the moment stiff with bitterness. + +“I am nothing, I am nothing,” she said to herself. She lay quite rigid +for a time. + +There was no sound anywhere. The morning sunlight pierced vividly +through the slits of the blind. Beatrice lay rocking herself, breathing +hard, her finger-nails pressing into her palm. Then came the sound of a +train slowing down in the station, and directly the quick +“chuff-chuff-chuff” of its drawing out. Beatrice imagined the sunlight +on the puffs of steam, and the two lovers, her husband and Helena, +rushing through the miles of morning sunshine. + +“God strike her dead! Mother of God, strike her down!” she said aloud, +in a low tone. She hated Helena. + +Irene, who lay with her mother, woke up and began to question her. + + + + +III + + +In the miles of morning sunshine, Siegmund’s shadows, his children, +Beatrice, his sorrow, dissipated like mist, and he was elated as a +young man setting forth to travel. When he had passed Portsmouth Town +everything had vanished but the old gay world of romance. He laughed as +he looked out of the carriage window. + +Below, in the street, a military band passed glittering. A brave sound +floated up, and again he laughed, loving the tune, the clash and +glitter of the band, the movement of scarlet, blithe soldiers beyond +the park. People were drifting brightly from church. How could it be +Sunday! It was no time; it was Romance, going back to Tristan. + +Women, like crocus flowers, in white and blue and lavender, moved +gaily. Everywhere fluttered the small flags of holiday. Every form +danced lightly in the sunshine. + +And beyond it all were the silent hillsides of the island, with Helena. +It was so wonderful, he could bear to be patient. She would be all in +white, with her cool, thick throat left bare to the breeze, her face +shining, smiling as she dipped her head because of the sun, which +glistened on her uncovered hair. + +He breathed deeply, stirring at the thought. But he would not grow +impatient. The train had halted over the town, where scarlet soldiers, +and ludicrous blue sailors, and all the brilliant women from church +shook like a kaleidoscope down the street. The train crawled on, +drawing near to the sea, for which Siegmund waited breathless. It was +so like Helena, blue, beautiful, strong in its reserve. + +Another moment they were in the dirty station. Then the day flashed +out, and Siegmund mated with joy. He felt the sea heaving below him. He +looked round, and the sea was blue as a periwinkle flower, while gold +and white and blood-red sails lit here and there upon the blueness. +Standing on the deck, he gave himself to the breeze and to the sea, +feeling like one of the ruddy sails—as if he were part of it all. All +his body radiated amid the large, magnificent sea-moon like a piece of +colour. + +The little ship began to pulse, to tremble. White with the softness of +a bosom, the water rose up frothing and swaying gently. Ships drew near +the inquisitive birds; the old _Victory_ shook her myriad pointed flags +of yellow and scarlet; the straight old houses of the quay passed by. + +Outside the harbour, like fierce creatures of the sea come wildly up to +look, the battleships laid their black snouts on the water. Siegmund +laughed at them. He felt the foam on his face like a sparkling, felt +the blue sea gathering round. + +On the left stood the round fortress, quaintly chequered, and solidly +alone in the walk of water, amid the silent flight of the golden-and +crimson-winged boats. + +Siegmund watched the bluish bulk of the island. Like the beautiful +women in the myths, his love hid in its blue haze. It seemed +impossible. Behind him, the white wake trailed myriads of daisies. On +either hand the grim and wicked battleships watched along their sharp +noses. Beneath him the clear green water swung and puckered as if it +were laughing. In front, Sieglinde’s island drew near and nearer, +creeping towards him, bringing him Helena. + +Meadows and woods appeared, houses crowded down to the shore to meet +him; he was in the quay, and the ride was over. Siegmund regretted it. +But Helena was on the island, which rode like an anchored ship under +the fleets of cloud that had launched whilst Siegmund was on water. As +he watched the end of the pier loom higher, large ponderous trains of +cloud cast over him the shadows of their bulk, and he shivered in the +chill wind. + +His travelling was very slow. The sky’s dark shipping pressed closer +and closer, as if all the clouds had come to harbour. Over the flat +lands near Newport the wind moaned like the calling of many +violoncellos. All the sky was grey. Siegmund waited drearily on Newport +station, where the wind swept coldly. It was Sunday, and the station +and the island were desolate, having lost their purposes. + +Siegmund put on his overcoat and sat down. All his morning’s blaze of +elation was gone, though there still glowed a great hope. He had slept +only two hours of the night. An empty man, he had drunk joy, and now +the intoxication was dying out. + +At three o’clock of the afternoon he sat alone in the second-class +carriage, looking out. A few raindrops struck the pane, then the +blurred dazzle of a shower came in a burst of wind, and hid the downs +and the reeds that shivered in the marshy places. Siegmund sat in a +chilly torpor. He counted the stations. Beneath his stupor his heart +was thudding heavily with excitement, surprising him, for his brain +felt dead. + +The train slowed down: Yarmouth! One more station, then. Siegmund +watched the platform, shiny with rain, slide past. On the dry grey +under the shelter, one white passenger was waiting. Suddenly Siegmund’s +heart leaped up, wrenching wildly. He burst open the door, and caught +hold of Helena. She dilated, gave a palpitating cry as he dragged her +into the carriage. + +“You _here!_” he exclaimed, in a strange tone. She was shivering with +cold. Her almost naked arms were blue. She could not answer Siegmund’s +question, but lay clasped against him, shivering away her last chill as +his warmth invaded her. He laughed in his heart as she nestled in to +him. + +“Is it a dream now, dear?” he whispered. Helena clasped him tightly, +shuddering because of the delicious suffusing of his warmth through +her. + +Almost immediately they heard the grinding of the brakes. + +“Here we are, then!” exclaimed Helena, dropping into her conventional, +cheerful manner at once. She put straight her hat, while he gathered +his luggage. + +Until tea-time there was a pause in their progress. Siegmund was +tingling with an exquisite vividness, as if he had taken some rare +stimulant. He wondered at himself. It seemed that every fibre in his +body was surprised with joy, as each tree in a forest at dawn utters +astonished cries of delight. + +When Helena came back, she sat opposite to him to see him. His naïve +look of joy was very sweet to her. His eyes were dark blue, showing the +fibrils, like a purple-veined flower at twilight, and somehow, +mysteriously, joy seemed to quiver in the iris. Helena appreciated him, +feature by feature. She liked his clear forehead, with its thick black +hair, and his full mouth, and his chin. She loved his hands, that were +small, but strong and nervous, and very white. She liked his breast, +that breathed so strong and quietly, and his arms, and his thighs, and +his knees. + +For him, Helena was a presence. She was ambushed, fused in an aura of +his love. He only saw she was white, and strong, and full fruited, he +only knew her blue eyes were rather awful to him. + +Outside, the sea-mist was travelling thicker and thicker inland. Their +lodging was not far from the bay. As they sat together at tea, +Siegmund’s eyes dilated, and he looked frowning at Helena. + +“What is it?” he asked, listening uneasily. + +Helena looked up at him, from pouring out the tea. His little anxious +look of distress amused her. + +“The noise, you mean? Merely the fog-horn, dear—not Wotan’s wrath, nor +Siegfried’s dragon….” + +The fog was white at the window. They sat waiting. After a few seconds +the sound came low, swelling, like the mooing of some great sea animal, +alone, the last of the monsters. The whole fog gave off the sound for a +second or two, then it died down into an intense silence. Siegmund and +Helena looked at each other. His eyes were full of trouble. To see a +big, strong man anxious-eyed as a child because of a strange sound +amused her. But he was tired. + +“I assure you, it _is_ only a fog-horn,” she laughed. + +“Of course. But it is a depressing sort of sound.” + +“Is it?” she said curiously. “Why? Well—yes—I think I can understand +its being so to some people. It’s something like the call of the horn +across the sea to Tristan.” + +She hummed softly, then three times she sang the horn-call. Siegmund, +with his face expressionless as a mask, sat staring out at the mist. +The boom of the siren broke in upon them. To him, the sound was full of +fatality. Helena waited till the noise died down, then she repeated her +horn-call. + +“Yet it is very much like the fog-horn,” she said, curiously +interested. + +“This time next week, Helena!” he said. + +She suddenly went heavy, and stretched across to clasp his hand as it +lay upon the table. + +“I shall be calling to you from Cornwall,” she said. + +He did not reply. So often she did not take his meaning, but left him +alone with his sense of tragedy. She had no idea how his life was +wrenched from its roots, and when he tried to tell her, she balked him, +leaving him inwardly quite lonely. + +“There is _no_ next week,” she declared, with great cheerfulness. +“There is only the present.” + +At the same moment she rose and slipped across to him. Putting her arms +round his neck, she stood holding his head to her bosom, pressing it +close, with her hand among his hair. His nostrils and mouth were +crushed against her breast. He smelled the silk of her dress and the +faint, intoxicating odour of her person. With shut eyes he owned +heavily to himself again that she was blind to him. But some other self +urged with gladness, no matter how blind she was, so that she pressed +his face upon her. + +She stroked and caressed his hair, tremblingly clasped his head against +her breast, as if she would never release him; then she bent to kiss +his forehead. He took her in his arms, and they were still for awhile. + +Now he wanted to blind himself with her, to blaze up all his past and +future in a passion worth years of living. + +After tea they rested by the fire, while she told him all the +delightful things she had found. She had a woman’s curious passion for +details, a woman’s peculiar attachment to certain dear trifles. He +listened, smiling, revived by her delight, and forgetful of himself. +She soothed him like sunshine, and filled him with pleasure; but he +hardly attended to her words. + +“Shall we go out, or are you too tired? No, you are tired—you are very +tired,” said Helena. + +She stood by his chair, looking down on him tenderly. + +“No,” he replied, smiling brilliantly at her, and stretching his +handsome limbs in relief—“no, not at all tired now.” + +Helena continued to look down on him in quiet, covering tenderness. But +she quailed before the brilliant, questioning gaze of his eyes. + +“You must go to bed early tonight,” she said, turning aside her face, +ruffling his soft black hair. He stretched slightly, stiffening his +arms, and smiled without answering. It was a very keen pleasure to be +thus alone with her and in her charge. He rose, bidding her wrap +herself up against the fog. + +“You are sure you’re not too tired?” she reiterated. + +He laughed. + +Outside, the sea-mist was white and woolly. They went hand in hand. It +was cold, so she thrust her hand with his into the pocket of his +overcoat, while they walked together. + +“I like the mist,” he said, pressing her hand in his pocket. + +“I don’t dislike it,” she replied, shrinking nearer to him. + +“It puts us together by ourselves,” he said. She plodded alongside, +bowing her head, not replying. He did not mind her silence. + +“It couldn’t have happened better for us than this mist,” he said. + +She laughed curiously, almost with a sound of tears. + +“Why?” she asked, half tenderly, half bitterly. + +“There is nothing else but you, and for you there is nothing else but +me—look!” + +He stood still. They were on the downs, so that Helena found herself +quite alone with the man in a world of mist. Suddenly she flung herself +sobbing against his breast. He held her closely, tenderly, not knowing +what it was all about, but happy and unafraid. + +In one hollow place the siren from the Needles seemed to bellow full in +their ears. Both Siegmund and Helena felt their emotion too intense. +They turned from it. + +“What is the pitch?” asked Helena. + +“Where it is horizontal? It slides up a chromatic scale,” said +Siegmund. + +“Yes, but the settled pitch—is it about E?” + +“E!” exclaimed Siegmund. “More like F.” + +“Nay, listen!” said Helena. + +They stood still and waited till there came the long booing of the +fog-horn. + +“There!” exclaimed Siegmund, imitating the sound. “That is not E.” He +repeated the sound. “It is F.” + +“Surely it is E,” persisted Helena. + +“Even F sharp,” he rejoined, humming the note. + +She laughed, and told him to climb the chromatic scale. + +“But you agree?” he said. + +“I do not,” she replied. + +The fog was cold. It seemed to rob them of their courage to talk. + +“What is the note in _Tristan_?” Helena made an effort to ask. + +“That is not the same,” he replied. + +“No, dear, that is not the same,” she said in low, comforting tones. He +quivered at the caress. She put her arms round him reached up her face +yearningly for a kiss. He forgot they were standing in the public +footpath, in daylight, till she drew hastily away. She heard footsteps +down the fog. + +As they climbed the path the mist grew thinner, till it was only a grey +haze at the top. There they were on the turfy lip of the land. The sky +was fairly clear overhead. Below them the sea was singing hoarsely to +itself. + +Helena drew him to the edge of the cliff. He crushed her hand, drawing +slightly back. But it pleased her to feel the grip on her hand becoming +unbearable. They stood right on the edge, to see the smooth cliff slope +into the mist, under which the sea stirred noisily. + +“Shall we walk over, then?” said Siegmund, glancing downwards. Helena’s +heart stood still a moment at the idea, then beat heavily. How could he +play with the idea of death, and the five great days in front? She was +afraid of him just then. + +“Come away, dear,” she pleaded. + +He would, then, forgo the few consummate days! It was bitterness to her +to think so. + +“Come away, dear!” she repeated, drawing him slowly to the path. + +“You are not afraid?” he asked. + +“Not afraid, no….” Her voice had that peculiar, reedy, harsh quality +that made him shiver. + +“It is too easy a way,” he said satirically. + +She did not take in his meaning. + +“And five days of our own before us, Siegmund!” she scolded. “The mist +is Lethe. It is enough for us if its spell lasts five days.” + +He laughed, and took her in his arms, kissing her very closely. + +They walked on joyfully, locking behind them the doors of +forgetfulness. + +As the sun set, the fog dispersed a little. Breaking masses of mist +went flying from cliff to cliff, and far away beyond the cliffs the +western sky stood dimmed with gold. The lovers wandered aimlessly over +the golf-links to where green mounds and turfed banks suggested to +Helena that she was tired, and would sit down. They faced the lighted +chamber of the west, whence, behind the torn, dull-gold curtains of +fog, the sun was departing with pomp. + +Siegmund sat very still, watching the sunset. It was a splendid, +flaming bridal chamber where he had come to Helena. He wondered how to +express it; how other men had borne this same glory. + +“What is the music of it?” he asked. + +She glanced at him. His eyelids were half lowered, his mouth slightly +open, as if in ironic rhapsody. + +“Of what, dear?” + +“What music do you think holds the best interpretation of sunset?” + +His skin was gold, his real mood was intense. She revered him for a +moment. + +“I do not know,” she said quietly; and she rested her head against his +shoulder, looking out west. + +There was a space of silence, while Siegmund dreamed on. + +“A Beethoven symphony—the one—” and he explained to her. + +She was not satisfied, but leaned against him, making her choice. The +sunset hung steady, she could scarcely perceive a change. + +“The Grail music in _Lohengrin_,” she decided. + +“Yes,” said Siegmund. He found it quite otherwise, but did not trouble +to dispute. He dreamed by himself. This displeased her. She wanted him +for herself. How could he leave her alone while he watched the sky? She +almost put her two hands over his eyes. + + + + +IV + + +The gold march of sunset passed quickly, the ragged curtains of mist +closed to. Soon Siegmund and Helena were shut alone within the dense +wide fog. She shivered with the cold and the damp. Startled, he took +her in his arms, where she lay and clung to him. Holding her closely, +he bent forward, straight to her lips. His moustache was drenched cold +with fog, so that she shuddered slightly after his kiss, and shuddered +again. He did not know why the strong tremor passed through her. +Thinking it was with fear and with cold, he undid his overcoat, put her +close on his breast, and covered her as best he could. That she feared +him at that moment was half pleasure, half shame to him. Pleadingly he +hid his face on her shoulder, held her very tightly, till his face grew +hot, buried against her soft strong throat. + +“You are so big I can’t hold you,” she whispered plaintively, catching +her breath with fear. Her small hands grasped at the breadth of his +shoulders ineffectually. + +“You will be cold. Put your hands under my coat,” he whispered. + +He put her inside his overcoat and his coat. She came to his warm +breast with a sharp intaking of delight and fear; she tried to make her +hands meet in the warmth of his shoulders, tried to clasp him. + +“See! I can’t,” she whispered. + +He laughed short, and pressed her closer. + +Then, tucking her head in his breast, hiding her face, she timidly slid +her hands along his sides, pressing softly, to find the contours of his +figure. Softly her hands crept over the silky back of his waistcoat, +under his coats, and as they stirred, his blood flushed up, and up +again, with fire, till all Siegmund was hot blood, and his breast was +one great ache. + +He crushed her to him—crushed her in upon the ache of his chest. His +muscles set hard and unyielding; at that moment he was a tense, vivid +body of flesh, without a mind; his blood, alive and conscious, running +towards her. He remained perfectly still, locked about Helena, +conscious of nothing. + +She was hurt and crushed, but it was pain delicious to her. It was +marvellous to her how strong he was, to keep up that grip of her like +steel. She swooned in a kind of intense bliss. At length she found +herself released, taking a great breath, while Siegmund was moving his +mouth over her throat, something like a dog snuffing her, but with his +lips. Her heart leaped away in revulsion. His moustache thrilled her +strangely. His lips, brushing and pressing her throat beneath the ear, +and his warm breath flying rhythmically upon her, made her vibrate +through all her body. Like a violin under the bow, she thrilled beneath +his mouth, and shuddered from his moustache. Her heart was like fire in +her breast. + +Suddenly she strained madly to him, and, drawing back her head, placed +her lips on his, close, till at the mouth they seemed to melt and fuse +together. It was the long, supreme kiss, in which man and woman have +one being, Two-in-one, the only Hermaphrodite. + +When Helena drew away her lips, she was exhausted. She belonged to that +class of “dreaming women” with whom passion exhausts itself at the +mouth. Her desire was accomplished in a real kiss. The fire, in heavy +flames, had poured through her to Siegmund, from Siegmund to her. It +sank, and she felt herself flagging. She had not the man’s brightness +and vividness of blood. She lay upon his breast, dreaming how beautiful +it would be to go to sleep, to swoon unconscious there, on that rare +bed. She lay still on Siegmund’s breast, listening to his heavily +beating heart. + +With her the dream was always more than the actuality. Her dream of +Siegmund was more to her than Siegmund himself. He might be less than +her dream, which is as it may be. However, to the real man she was very +cruel. + +He held her close. His dream was melted in his blood, and his blood ran +bright for her. His dreams were the flowers of his blood. Hers were +more detached and inhuman. For centuries a certain type of woman has +been rejecting the “animal” in humanity, till now her dreams are +abstract, and full of fantasy, and her blood runs in bondage, and her +kindness is full of cruelty. + +Helena lay flagging upon the breast of Siegmund. He folded her closely, +and his mouth and his breath were warm on her neck. She sank away from +his caresses, passively, subtly drew back from him. He was far too +sensitive not to be aware of this, and far too much of a man not to +yield to the woman. His heart sank, his blood grew sullen at her +withdrawal. Still he held her; the two were motionless and silent for +some time. + +She became distressedly conscious that her feet, which lay on the wet +grass, were aching with cold. She said softly, gently, as if he was her +child whom she must correct and lead: + +“I think we ought to go home, Siegmund.” He made a small sound, that +might mean anything, but did not stir or release her. His mouth, +however, remained motionless on her throat, and the caress went out of +it. + +“It is cold and wet, dear; we ought to go,” she coaxed determinedly. + +“Soon,” he said thickly. + +She sighed, waited a moment, then said very gently, as if she were +loath to take him from his pleasure: + +“Siegmund, I am cold.” + +There was a reproach in this which angered him. + +“Cold!” he exclaimed. “But you are warm with me—” + +“But my feet are out on the grass, dear, and they are like wet +pebbles.” + +“Oh dear!” he said. “Why didn’t you give them me to warm?” He leaned +forward, and put his hand on her shoes. + +“They are very cold,” he said. “We must hurry and make them warm.” + +When they rose, her feet were so numbed she could hardly stand. She +clung to Siegmund, laughing. + +“I wish you had told me before,” he said. “I ought to have known….” + +Vexed with himself, he put his arm round her, and they set off home. + + + + +V + + +They found the fire burning brightly in their room. The only other +person in the pretty, stiffly-furnished cottage was their landlady, a +charming old lady, who let this sitting-room more for the change, for +the sake of having visitors, than for gain. + +Helena introduced Siegmund as “My friend”. The old lady smiled upon +him. He was big, and good-looking, and embarrassed. She had had a son +years back…. And the two were lovers. She hoped they would come to her +house for their honeymoon. + +Siegmund sat in his great horse-hair chair by the fire, while Helena +attended to the lamp. Glancing at him over the glowing globe, she found +him watching her with a small, peculiar smile of irony, and anger, and +bewilderment. He was not quite himself. Her hand trembled so, she could +scarcely adjust the wicks. + +Helena left the room to change her dress. + +“I shall be back before Mrs Curtiss brings in the tray. There is the +Nietzsche I brought—” + +He did not answer as he watched her go. Left alone, he sat with his +arms along his knees, perfectly still. His heart beat heavily, and all +his being felt sullen, watchful, aloof, like a balked animal. Thoughts +came up in his brain like bubbles—random, hissing out aimlessly. Once, +in the startling inflammability of his blood, his veins ran hot, and he +smiled. + +When Helena entered the room his eyes sought hers swiftly, as sparks +lighting on the tinder. But her eyes were only moist with tenderness. +His look instantly changed. She wondered at his being so silent, so +strange. + +Coming to him in her unhesitating, womanly way—she was only twenty-six +to his thirty-eight—she stood before him, holding both his hands and +looking down on him with almost gloomy tenderness. She wore a white +dress that showed her throat gathering like a fountain-jet of solid +foam to balance her head. He could see the full white arms passing +clear through the dripping spume of lace, towards the rise of her +breasts. But her eyes bent down upon him with such gloom of tenderness +that he dared not reveal the passion burning in him. He could not look +at her. He strove almost pitifully to be with her sad, tender, but he +could not put out his fire. She held both his hands firm, pressing them +in appeal for her dream love. He glanced at her wistfully, then turned +away. She waited for him. She wanted his caresses and tenderness. He +would not look at her. + +“You would like supper now, dear?” she asked, looking where the dark +hair ended, and his neck ran smooth, under his collar, to the strong +setting of his shoulders. + +“Just as you will,” he replied. + +Still she waited, and still he would not look at her. Something +troubled him, she thought. He was foreign to her. + +“I will spread the cloth, then,” she said, in deep tones of +resignation. She pressed his hands closely, and let them drop. He took +no notice, but, still with his arms on his knees, he stared into the +fire. + +In the golden glow of lamplight she set small bowls of white and +lavender sweet-peas, and mignonette, upon the round table. He watched +her moving, saw the stir of her white, sloping shoulders under the +lace, and the hollow of her shoulders firm as marble, and the slight +rise and fall of her loins as she walked. He felt as if his breast were +scalded. It was a physical pain to him. + +Supper was very quiet. Helena was sad and gentle; he had a peculiar, +enigmatic look in his eyes, between suffering and mockery and love. He +was quite intractable; he would not soften to her, but remained there +aloof. He was tired, and the look of weariness and suffering was +evident to her through his strangeness. In her heart she wept. + +At last she tinkled the bell for supper to be cleared. Meanwhile, +restlessly, she played fragments of Wagner on the piano. + +“Will you want anything else?” asked the smiling old landlady. + +“Nothing at all, thanks,” said Helena, with decision. + +“Oh! then I think I will go to bed when I’ve washed the dishes. You +will put the lamp out, dear?” + +“I am well used to a lamp,” smiled Helena. “We use them always at +home.” + +She had had a day before Siegmund’s coming, in which to win Mrs +Curtiss’ heart, and she had been successful. The old lady took the +tray. + +“Good-night, dear—good-night, sir. I will leave you. You will not be +long, dear?” + +“No, we shall not be long. Mr MacNair is very evidently tired out.” + +“Yes—yes. It is very tiring, London.” + +When the door was closed, Helena stood a moment undecided, looking at +Siegmund. He was lying in his arm-chair in a dispirited way, and +looking in the fire. As she gazed at him with troubled eyes, he +happened to glance to her, with the same dark, curiously searching, +disappointed eyes. + +“Shall I read to you?” she asked bitterly. + +“If you will,” he replied. + +He sounded so indifferent, she could scarcely refrain from crying. She +went and stood in front of him, looking down on him heavily. + +“What is it, dear?” she said. + +“You,” he replied, smiling with a little grimace. + +“Why me?” + +He smiled at her ironically, then closed his eyes. She slid into his +arms with a little moan. He took her on his knee, where she curled up +like a heavy white cat. She let him caress her with his mouth, and did +not move, but lay there curled up and quiet and luxuriously warm. + +He kissed her hair, which was beautifully fragrant of itself, and time +after time drew between his lips one long, keen thread, as if he would +ravel out with his mouth her vigorous confusion of hair. His tenderness +of love was like a soft flame lapping her voluptuously. + +After a while they heard the old lady go upstairs. Helena went very +still, and seemed to contract. Siegmund himself hesitated in his +love-making. All was very quiet. They could hear the faint breathing of +the sea. Presently the cat, which had been sleeping in a chair, rose +and went to the door. + +“Shall I let her out?” said Siegmund. + +“Do!” said Helena, slipping from his knee. “She goes out when the +nights are fine.” + +Siegmund rose to set free the tabby. Hearing the front door open, Mrs +Curtiss called from upstairs: “Is that you, dear?” + +“I have just let Kitty out,” said Siegmund. + +“Ah, thank you. Good night!” They heard the old lady lock her bedroom +door. + +Helena was kneeling on the hearth. Siegmund softly closed the door, +then waited a moment. His heart was beating fast. + +“Shall we sit by firelight?” he asked tentatively. + +“Yes—If you wish,” she replied, very slowly, as if against her will. He +carefully turned down the lamp, then blew out the light. His whole body +was burning and surging with desire. + +The room was black and red with firelight. Helena shone ruddily as she +knelt, a bright, bowed figure, full in the glow. Now and then red +stripes of firelight leapt across the walls. Siegmund, his face ruddy, +advanced out of the shadows. + +He sat in the chair beside her, leaning forward, his hands hanging like +two scarlet flowers listless in the fire glow, near to her, as she +knelt on the hearth, with head bowed down. One of the flowers awoke and +spread towards her. It asked for her mutely. She was fascinated, +scarcely able to move. + +“Come,” he pleaded softly. + +She turned, lifted her hands to him. The lace fell back, and her arms, +bare to the shoulder, shone rosily. He saw her breasts raised towards +him. Her face was bent between her arms as she looked up at him afraid. +Lit by the firelight, in her white, clinging dress, cowering between +her uplifted arms, she seemed to be offering him herself to sacrifice. + +In an instant he was kneeling, and she was lying on his shoulder, +abandoned to him. There was a good deal of sorrow in his joy. + + +It was eleven o’clock when Helena at last loosened Siegmund’s arms, and +rose from the armchair where she lay beside him. She was very hot, +feverish, and restless. For the last half-hour he had lain absolutely +still, with his heavy arms about her, making her hot. If she had not +seen his eyes blue and dark, she would have thought him asleep. She +tossed in restlessness on his breast. + +“Am I not uneasy?” she had said, to make him speak. He had smiled +gently. + +“It is wonderful to be as still as this,” he said. She had lain +tranquil with him, then, for a few moments. To her there was something +sacred in his stillness and peace. She wondered at him; he was so +different from an hour ago. How could he be the same! Now he was like +the sea, blue and hazy in the morning, musing by itself. Before, he was +burning, volcanic, as if he would destroy her. + +She had given him this new soft beauty. She was the earth in which his +strange flowers grew. But she herself wondered at the flowers produced +of her. He was so strange to her, so different from herself. What next +would he ask of her, what new blossom would she rear in him then. He +seemed to grow and flower involuntarily. She merely helped to produce +him. + +Helena could not keep still; her body was full of strange sensations, +of involuntary recoil from shock. She was tired, but restless. All the +time Siegmund lay with his hot arms over her, himself so +incomprehensible in his base of blue, open-eyed slumber, she grew more +breathless and unbearable to herself. + +At last she lifted his arm, and drew herself out of the chair. Siegmund +looked at her from his tranquillity. She put the damp hair from her +forehead, breathed deep, almost panting. Then she glanced hauntingly at +her flushed face in the mirror. With the same restlessness, she turned +to look at the night. The cool, dark, watery sea called to her. She +pushed back the curtain. + +The moon was wading deliciously through shallows of white cloud. Beyond +the trees and the few houses was the great concave of darkness, the +sea, and the moonlight. The moon was there to put a cool hand of +absolution on her brow. + +“Shall we go out a moment, Siegmund?” she asked fretfully. + +“Ay, if you wish to,” he answered, altogether willing. He was filled +with an easiness that would comply with her every wish. + +They went out softly, walked in silence to the bay. There they stood at +the head of the white, living moonpath, where the water whispered at +the casement of the land seductively. + +“It’s the finest night I have seen,” said Siegmund. Helena’s eyes +suddenly filled with tears, at his simplicity of happiness. + +“I like the moon on the water,” she said. + +“I can hardly tell the one from the other,” he replied simply. “The sea +seems to be poured out of the moon, and rocking in the hands of the +coast. They are all one, just as your eyes and hands and what you say, +are all you.” + +“Yes,” she answered, thrilled. This was the Siegmund of her dream, and +she had created him. Yet there was a quiver of pain. He was beyond her +now, and did not need her. + +“I feel at home here,” he said; “as if I had come home where I was +bred.” + +She pressed his hand hard, clinging to him. + +“We go an awful long way round, Helena,” he said, “just to find we’re +all right.” He laughed pleasantly. “I have thought myself such an +outcast! How can one be outcast in one’s own night, and the moon always +naked to us, and the sky half her time in rags? What do we want?” + +Helena did not know. Nor did she know what he meant. But she felt +something of the harmony. + +“Whatever I have or haven’t from now,” he continued, “the darkness is a +sort of mother, and the moon a sister, and the stars children, and +sometimes the sea is a brother: and there’s a family in one house, you +see.” + +“And I, Siegmund?” she said softly, taking him in all seriousness. She +looked up at him piteously. He saw the silver of tears among the +moonlit ivory of her face. His heart tightened with tenderness, and he +laughed, then bent to kiss her. + +“The key of the castle,” he said. He put his face against hers, and +felt on his cheek the smart of her tears. + +“It’s all very grandiose,” he said comfortably, “but it does for +tonight, all this that I say.” + +“It is true for ever,” she declared. + +“In so far as tonight is eternal,” he said. + +He remained, with the wetness of her cheek smarting on his, looking +from under his brows at the white transport of the water beneath the +moon. They stood folded together, gazing into the white heart of the +night. + + + + +VI + + +Siegmund woke with wonder in the morning. “It is like the magic tales,” +he thought, as he realized where he was; “and I am transported to a new +life, to realize my dream! Fairy-tales are true, after all.” + +He had slept very deeply, so that he felt strangely new. He issued with +delight from the dark of sleep into the sunshine. Reaching out his +hand, he felt for his watch. It was seven o’clock. The dew of a +sleep-drenched night glittered before his eyes. Then he laughed and +forgot the night. + +The creeper was tapping at the window, as a little wind blew up the +sunshine. Siegmund put out his hands for the unfolding happiness of the +morning. Helena was in the next room, which she kept inviolate. +Sparrows in the creeper were shaking shadows of leaves among the +sunshine; milk-white shallop of cloud stemmed bravely across the bright +sky; the sea would be blossoming with a dewy shimmer of sunshine. + +Siegmund rose to look, and it was so. Also the houses, like white, and +red, and black cattle, were wandering down the bay, with a mist of +sunshine between him and them. He leaned with his hands on the +window-ledge looking out of the casement. The breeze ruffled his hair, +blew down the neck of his sleeping-jacket upon his chest. He laughed, +hastily threw on his clothes, and went out. + +There was no sign of Helena. He strode along, singing to himself, and +spinning his towel rhythmically. A small path led him across a field +and down a zigzag in front of the cliffs. Some nooks, sheltered from +the wind, were warm with sunshine, scented of honeysuckle and of thyme. +He took a sprig of woodbine that was coloured of cream and butter. The +grass wetted his brown shoes and his flannel trousers. Again, a fresh +breeze put the scent of the sea in his uncovered hair. The cliff was a +tangle of flowers above and below, with poppies at the lip being blown +out like red flame, and scabious leaning inquisitively to look down, +and pink and white rest-harrow everywhere, very pretty. + +Siegmund stood at a bend where heath blossomed in shaggy lilac, where +the sunshine but no wind came. He saw the blue bay curl away to the +far-off headland. A few birds, white and small, circled, dipped by the +thin foam-edge of the water; a few ships dimmed the sea with silent +travelling; a few small people, dark or naked-white, moved below the +swinging birds. + +He chose his bathing-place where the incoming tide had half covered a +stretch of fair, bright sand that was studded with rocks resembling +square altars, hollowed on top. He threw his clothes on a high rock. It +delighted him to feel the fresh, soft fingers of the wind touching him +and wandering timidly over his nakedness. He ran laughing over the sand +to the sea, where he waded in, thrusting his legs noisily through the +heavy green water. + +It was cold, and he shrank. For a moment he found himself thigh-deep, +watching the horizontal stealing of a ship through the intolerable +glitter, afraid to plunge. Laughing, he went under the clear green +water. + +He was a poor swimmer. Sometimes a choppy wave swamped him, and he rose +gasping, wringing the water from his eyes and nostrils, while he heaved +and sank with the rocking of the waves that clasped his breast. Then he +stooped again to resume his game with the sea. It is splendid to play, +even at middle age, and the sea is a fine partner. + +With his eyes at the shining level of the water, he liked to peer +across, taking a seal’s view of the cliffs as they confronted the +morning. He liked to see the ships standing up on a bright floor; he +liked to see the birds come down. + +But in his playing he drifted towards the spur of rock, where, as he +swam, he caught his thigh on a sharp, submerged point. He frowned at +the pain, at the sudden cruelty of the sea; then he thought no more of +it, but ruffled his way back to the clear water, busily continuing his +play. + +When he ran out on to the fair sand his heart, and brain, and body were +in a turmoil. He panted, filling his breast with the air that was +sparkled and tasted of the sea. As he shuddered a little, the wilful +palpitations of his flesh pleased him, as if birds had fluttered +against him. He offered his body to the morning, glowing with the sea’s +passion. The wind nestled in to him, the sunshine came on his shoulders +like warm breath. He delighted in himself. + +The rock before him was white and wet, like himself; it had a pool of +clear water, with shells and one rose anemone. + +“She would make so much of this little pool,” he thought. And as he +smiled, he saw, very faintly, his own shadow in the water. It made him +conscious of himself, seeming to look at him. He glanced at himself, at +his handsome, white maturity. As he looked he felt the insidious +creeping of blood down his thigh, which was marked with a long red +slash. Siegmund watched the blood travel over the bright skin. It wound +itself redly round the rise of his knee. + +“That is I, that creeping red, and this whiteness I pride myself on is +I, and my black hair, and my blue eyes are I. It is a weird thing to be +a person. What makes me myself, among all these?” + +Feeling chill, he wiped himself quickly. + +“I am at my best, at my strongest,” he said proudly to himself. “She +ought to be rejoiced at me, but she is not; she rejects me as if I were +a baboon under my clothing.” + +He glanced at his whole handsome maturity, the firm plating of his +breasts, the full thighs, creatures proud in themselves. Only he was +marred by the long raw scratch, which he regretted deeply. + +“If I was giving her myself, I wouldn’t want that blemish on me,” he +thought. + +He wiped the blood from the wound. It was nothing. + +“She thinks ten thousand times more of that little pool, with a bit of +pink anemone and some yellow weed, than of me. But, by Jove! I’d rather +see her shoulders and breast than all heaven and earth put together +could show…. Why doesn’t she like me?” he thought as he dressed. It was +his physical self thinking. + +After dabbling his feet in a warm pool, he returned home. Helena was in +the dining-room arranging a bowl of purple pansies. She looked up at +him rather heavily as he stood radiant on the threshold. He put her at +her ease. It was a gay, handsome boy she had to meet, not a man, +strange and insistent. She smiled on him with tender dignity. + +“You have bathed?” she said, smiling, and looking at his damp, ruffled +black hair. She shrank from his eyes, but he was quite unconscious. + +“You have not bathed!” he said; then bent to kiss her. She smelt the +brine in his hair. + +“No; I bathe later,” she replied. “But what—” + +Hesitating, she touched the towel, then looked up at him anxiously. + +“It _is_ blood?” she said. + +“I grazed my thigh—nothing at all,” he replied. + +“Are you sure?” + +He laughed. + +“The towel looks bad enough,” she said. + +“It’s an alarmist,” he laughed. + +She looked in concern at him, then turned aside. + +“Breakfast is quite ready,” she said. + +“And I for breakfast—but shall I do?” + +She glanced at him. He was without a collar, so his throat was bare +above the neck-band of his flannel shirt. Altogether she disapproved of +his slovenly appearance. He was usually so smart in his dress. + +“I would not trouble,” she said almost sarcastically. + +Whistling, he threw the towel on a chair. + +“How did you sleep?” she asked gravely, as she watched him beginning to +eat. + +“Like the dead—solid,” he replied”. “And you?” + +“Oh, pretty well, thanks,” she said, rather piqued that he had slept so +deeply, whilst she had tossed, and had called his name in a torture of +sleeplessness. + +“I haven’t slept like that for years,” he said enthusiastically. Helena +smiled gently on him. The charm of his handsome, healthy zest came over +her. She liked his naked throat and his shirt-breast, which suggested +the breast of the man beneath it. She was extraordinarily happy, with +him so bright. The dark-faced pansies, in a little crowd, seemed gaily +winking a golden eye at her. + +After breakfast, while Siegmund dressed, she went down to the sea. She +dwelled, as she passed, on all tiny, pretty things—on the barbaric +yellow ragwort, and pink convolvuli; on all the twinkling of flowers, +and dew, and snail-tracks drying in the sun. Her walk was one long +lingering. More than the spaces, she loved the nooks, and fancy more +than imagination. + +She wanted to see just as she pleased, without any of humanity’s +previous vision for spectacles. So she knew hardly any flower’s name, +nor perceived any of the relationships, nor cared a jot about an +adaptation or a modification. It pleased her that the lowest browny +florets of the clover hung down; she cared no more. She clothed +everything in fancy. + +“That yellow flower hadn’t time to be brushed and combed by the fairies +before dawn came. It is tousled …” so she thought to herself. The pink +convolvuli were fairy horns or telephones from the day fairies to the +night fairies. The rippling sunlight on the sea was the Rhine maidens +spreading their bright hair to the sun. That was her favourite form of +thinking. The value of all things was in the fancy they evoked. She did +not care for people; they were vulgar, ugly, and stupid, as a rule. + +Her sense of satisfaction was complete as she leaned on the low +sea-wall, spreading her fingers to warm on the stones, concocting magic +out of the simple morning. She watched the indolent chasing of wavelets +round the small rocks, the curling of the deep blue water round the +water-shadowed reefs. + +“This is very good,” she said to herself. “This is eternally cool, and +clean and fresh. It could never be spoiled by satiety.” + +She tried to wash herself with the white and blue morning, to clear +away the soiling of the last night’s passion. + +The sea played by itself, intent on its own game. Its aloofness, its +self-sufficiency, are its great charm. The sea does not give and take, +like the land and the sky. It has no traffic with the world. It spends +its passion upon itself. Helena was something like the sea, +self-sufficient and careless of the rest. + +Siegmund came bareheaded, his black hair ruffling to the wind, his eyes +shining warmer than the sea-like cornflowers rather, his limbs swinging +backward and forward like the water. Together they leaned on the wall, +warming the four white hands upon the grey bleached stone as they +watched the water playing. + +When Siegmund had Helena near, he lost the ache, the yearning towards +something, which he always felt otherwise. She seemed to connect him +with the beauty of things, as if she were the nerve through which he +received intelligence of the sun, and wind, and sea, and of the moon +and the darkness. Beauty she never felt herself came to him through +her. It is that makes love. He could always sympathize with the wistful +little flowers, and trees lonely in their crowds, and wild, sad +seabirds. In these things he recognized the great yearning, the ache +outwards towards something, with which he was ordinarily burdened. But +with Helena, in this large sea-morning, he was whole and perfect as the +day. + +“Will it be fine all day?” he asked, when a cloud came over. + +“I don’t know,” she replied in her gentle, inattentive manner, as if +she did not care at all. “I think it will be a mixed day—cloud and +sun—more sun than cloud.” + +She looked up gravely to see if he agreed. He turned from frowning at +the cloud to smile at her. He seemed so bright, teeming with life. + +“I like a bare blue sky,” he said; “sunshine that you seem to stir +about as you walk.” + +“It is warm enough here, even for you,” she smiled. + +“Ah, here!” he answered, putting his face down to receive the radiation +from the stone, letting his fingers creep towards Helena’s. She +laughed, and captured his fingers, pressing them into her hand. For +nearly an hour they remained thus in the still sunshine by the +sea-wall, till Helena began to sigh, and to lift her face to the little +breeze that wandered down from the west. She fled as soon from warmth +as from cold. Physically, she was always so; she shrank from anything +extreme. But psychically she was an extremist, and a dangerous one. + +They climbed the hill to the fresh-breathing west. On the highest point +of land stood a tall cross, railed in by a red iron fence. They read +the inscription. + +“That’s all right—but a vilely ugly railing!” exclaimed Siegmund. + +“Oh, they’d have to fence in Lord Tennyson’s white marble,” said +Helena, rather indefinitely. + +He interpreted her according to his own idea. + +“Yes, he did belittle great things, didn’t he?” said Siegmund. + +“Tennyson!” she exclaimed. + +“Not peacocks and princesses, but the bigger things.” + +“I shouldn’t say so,” she declared. + +He sounded indeterminate, but was not really so. + +They wandered over the downs westward, among the wind. As they followed +the headland to the Needles, they felt the breeze from the wings of the +sea brushing them, and heard restless, poignant voices screaming below +the cliffs. Now and again a gull, like a piece of spume flung up, rose +over the cliff’s edge, and sank again. Now and again, as the path +dipped in a hollow, they could see the low, suspended intertwining of +the birds passing in and out of the cliff shelter. + +These savage birds appealed to all the poetry and yearning in Helena. +They fascinated her, they almost voiced her. She crept nearer and +nearer the edge, feeling she must watch the gulls thread out in flakes +of white above the weed-black rocks. Siegmund stood away back, +anxiously. He would not dare to tempt Fate now, having too strong a +sense of death to risk it. + +“Come back, dear. Don’t go so near,” he pleaded, following as close as +he might. She heard the pain and appeal in his voice. It thrilled her, +and she went a little nearer. What was death to her but one of her +symbols, the death of which the sagas talk—something grand, and +sweeping, and dark. + +Leaning forward, she could see the line of grey sand and the line of +foam broken by black rocks, and over all the gulls, stirring round like +froth on a pot, screaming in chorus. + +She watched the beautiful birds, heard the pleading of Siegmund, and +she thrilled with pleasure, toying with his keen anguish. + +Helena came smiling to Siegmund, saying: + +“They look so fine down there.” + +He fastened his hands upon her, as a relief from his pain. He was +filled with a keen, strong anguish of dread, like a presentiment. She +laughed as he gripped her. + +They went searching for a way of descent. At last Siegmund inquired of +the coastguard the nearest way down the cliff. He was pointed to the +“Path of the Hundred Steps”. + +“When is a hundred not a hundred?” he said sceptically, as they +descended the dazzling white chalk. There were sixty-eight steps. +Helena laughed at his exactitude. + +“It must be a love of round numbers,” he said. + +“No doubt,” she laughed. He took the thing so seriously. + +“Or of exaggeration,” he added. + +There was a shelving beach of warm white sand, bleached soft as velvet. +A sounding of gulls filled the dark recesses of the headland; a low +chatter of shingle came from where the easy water was breaking; the +confused, shell-like murmur of the sea between the folded cliffs. +Siegmund and Helena lay side by side upon the dry sand, small as two +resting birds, while thousands of gulls whirled in a white-flaked storm +above them, and the great cliffs towered beyond, and high up over the +cliffs the multitudinous clouds were travelling, a vast caravan _en +route_. Amidst the journeying of oceans and clouds and the circling +flight of heavy spheres, lost to sight in the sky, Siegmund and Helena, +two grains of life in the vast movement, were travelling a moment side +by side. + +They lay on the beach like a grey and a white sea-bird together. The +lazy ships that were idling down the Solent observed the cliffs and the +boulders, but Siegmund and Helena were too little. They lay ignored and +insignificant, watching through half-closed fingers the diverse caravan +of Day go past. They lay with their latticed fingers over their eyes, +looking out at the sailing of ships across their vision of blue water. + +“Now, that one with the greyish sails—” Siegmund was saying. + +“Like a housewife of forty going placidly round with the duster—yes?” +interrupted Helena. + +“That is a schooner. You see her four sails, and—” + +He continued to classify the shipping, until he was interrupted by the +wicked laughter of Helena. + +“That is right, I am sure,” he protested. + +“I won’t contradict you,” she laughed, in a tone which showed him he +knew even less of the classifying of ships than she did. + +“So you have lain there amusing yourself at my expense all the time?” +he said, not knowing in the least why she laughed. They turned and +looked at one another, blue eyes smiling and wavering as the beach +wavers in the heat. Then they closed their eyes with sunshine. + +Drowsed by the sun, and the white sand, and the foam, their thoughts +slept like butterflies on the flowers of delight. But cold shadows +startled them up. + +“The clouds are coming,” he said regretfully. + +“Yes; but the wind is quite strong enough for them,” she answered, + +“Look at the shadows—like blots floating away. Don’t they devour the +sunshine?” + +“It is quite warm enough here,” she said, nestling in to him. + +“Yes; but the sting is missing. I like to feel the warmth biting in.” + +“No, I do not. To be cosy is enough.” + +“I like the sunshine on me, real, and manifest, and tangible. I feel +like a seed that has been frozen for ages. I want to be bitten by the +sunshine.” + +She leaned over and kissed him. The sun came bright-footed over the +water, leaving a shining print on Siegmund’s face. He lay, with +half-closed eyes, sprawled loosely on the sand. Looking at his limbs, +she imagined he must be heavy, like the bounders. She sat over him, +with her fingers stroking his eyebrows, that were broad and rather +arched. He lay perfectly still, in a half-dream. + +Presently she laid her head on his breast, and remained so, watching +the sea, and listening to his heart-beats. The throb was strong and +deep. It seemed to go through the whole island and the whole afternoon, +and it fascinated her: so deep, unheard, with its great expulsions of +life. Had the world a heart? Was there also deep in the world a great +God thudding out waves of life, like a great heart, unconscious? It +frightened her. This was the God she knew not, as she knew not this +Siegmund. It was so different from the half-shut eyes with black +lashes, and the winsome, shapely nose. And the heart of the world, as +she heard it, could not be the same as the curling splash of retreat of +the little sleepy waves. She listened for Siegmund’s soul, but his +heart overbeat all other sound, thudding powerfully. + + + + +VII + + +Siegmund woke to the muffled firing of guns on the sea. He looked +across at the shaggy grey water in wonder. Then he turned to Helena. + +“I suppose,” he said, “they are saluting the Czar. Poor beggar!” + +“I was afraid they would wake you,” she smiled. + +They listened again to the hollow, dull sound of salutes from across +the water and the downs. + +The day had gone grey. They decided to walk, down below, to the next +bay. + +“The tide is coming in,” said Helena. + +“But this broad strip of sand hasn’t been wet for months. It’s as soft +as pepper,” he replied. + +They laboured along the shore, beside the black, sinuous line of +shrivelled fucus. The base of the cliff was piled with chalk debris. On +the other side was the level plain of the sea. Hand in hand, alone and +overshadowed by huge cliffs, they toiled on. The waves staggered in, +and fell, overcome at the end of the race. + +Siegmund and Helena neared a headland, sheer as the side of a house, +its base weighted with a tremendous white mass of boulders, that the +green sea broke amongst with a hollow sound, followed by a sharp hiss +of withdrawal. The lovers had to cross this desert of white boulders, +that glistened in smooth skins uncannily. But Siegmund saw the waves +were almost at the wall of the headland. Glancing back, he saw the +other headland white-dashed at the base with foam. He and Helena must +hurry, or they would be prisoned on the thin crescent of strand still +remaining between the great wall and the water. + +The cliffs overhead oppressed him—made him feel trapped and helpless. +He was caught by them in a net of great boulders, while the sea fumbled +for him. But he and Helena. She laboured strenuously beside him, +blinded by the skin-like glisten of the white rock. + +“I think I will rest awhile,” she said. + +“No, come along,” he begged. + +“My dear,” she laughed, “there is tons of this shingle to buttress us +from the sea.” + +He looked at the waves curving and driving maliciously at the boulders. +It would be ridiculous to be trapped. + +“Look at this black wood,” she said. “Does the sea really char it?” + +“Let us get round the corner,” he begged. + +“Really, Siegmund, the sea is not so anxious to take us,” she said +ironically. + +When they rounded the first point, they found themselves in a small bay +jutted out to sea; the front of the headland was, as usual, grooved. +This bay was pure white at the base, from its great heaped mass of +shingle. With the huge concave of the cliff behind, the foothold of +massed white boulders, and the immense arc of the sea in front, Helena +was delighted. + +“This is fine, Siegmund!” she said, halting and facing west. + +Smiling ironically, he sat down on a boulder. They were quite alone, in +this great white niche thrust out to sea. Here, he could see, the tide +would beat the base of the wall. It came plunging not far from their +feet. + +“Would you really like to travel beyond the end?” he asked. + +She looked round quickly, thrilled, then answered as if in rebuke: + +“This is a fine place. I should like to stay here an hour.” + +“And then where?” + +“Then? Oh, then, I suppose, it would be tea-time.” + +“Tea on brine and pink anemones, with Daddy Neptune.” + +She looked sharply at the outjutting capes. The sea did foam perilously +near their bases. + +“I suppose it _is_ rather risky,” she said; and she turned, began +silently to clamber forwards. + +He followed; she should set the pace. + +“I have no doubt there’s plenty of room, really,” he said. “The sea +only looks near.” + +But she toiled on intently. Now it was a question of danger, not of +inconvenience, Siegmund felt elated. The waves foamed up, as it seemed, +against the exposed headland, from which the massive shingle had been +swept back. Supposing they could not get by? He began to smile +curiously. He became aware of the tremendous noise of waters, of the +slight shudder of the shingle when a wave struck it, and he always +laughed to himself. Helena laboured on in silence; he kept just behind +her. The point seemed near, but it took longer than they thought. They +had against them the tremendous cliff, the enormous weight of shingle, +and the swinging sea. The waves struck louder, booming fearfully; wind, +sweeping round the corner, wet their faces. Siegmund hoped they were +cut off, and hoped anxiously the way was clear. The smile became set on +his face. + +Then he saw there was a ledge or platform at the base of the cliff, and +it was against this the waves broke. They climbed the side of this +ridge, hurried round to the front. There the wind caught them, wet and +furious; the water raged below. Between the two Helena shrank, wilted. +She took hold of Siegmund. The great, brutal wave flung itself at the +rock, then drew back for another heavy spring. Fume and spray were spun +on the wind like smoke. The roaring thud of the waves reminded Helena +of a beating heart. She clung closer to him, as her hair was blown out +damp, and her white dress flapped in the wet wind. Always, against the +rock, came the slow thud of the waves, like a great heart beating under +the breast. There was something brutal about it that she could not +bear. She had no weapon against brute force. + +She glanced up at Siegmund. Tiny drops of mist greyed his eyebrows. He +was looking out to sea, screwing up his eyes, and smiling brutally. Her +face became heavy and sullen. He was like the heart and the brute sea, +just here; he was not her Siegmund. She hated the brute in him. + +Turning suddenly, she plunged over the shingle towards the wide, +populous bay. He remained alone, grinning at the smashing turmoil, +careless of her departure. He would easily catch her. + +When at last he turned from the wrestling water, he had spent his +savagery, and was sad. He could never take part in the great battle of +action. It was beyond him. Many things he had let slip by. His life was +whittled down to only a few interests, only a few necessities. Even +here, he had but Helena, and through her the rest. After this +week—well, that was vague. He left it in the dark, dreading it. + +And Helena was toiling over the rough beach alone. He saw her small +figure bowed as she plunged forward. It smote his heart with the +keenest tenderness. She was so winsome, a playmate with beauty and +fancy. Why was he cruel to her because she had not his own bitter +wisdom of experience? She was young and naïve, and should he be angry +with her for that? His heart was tight at the thought of her. She would +have to suffer also, because of him. + +He hurried after her. Not till they had nearly come to a little green +mound, where the downs sloped, and the cliffs were gone, did he catch +her up. Then he took her hand as they walked. + +They halted on the green hillock beyond the sand, and, without a word, +he folded her in his arms. Both were put of breath. He clasped her +close, seeming to rock her with his strong panting. She felt his body +lifting into her, and sinking away. It seemed to force a rhythm, a new +pulse, in her. Gradually, with a fine, keen thrilling, she melted down +on him, like metal sinking on a mould. He was sea and sunlight mixed, +heaving, warm, deliciously strong. + +Siegmund exulted. At last she was moulded to him in pure passion. + +They stood folded thus for some time. Then Helena raised her burning +face, and relaxed. She was throbbing with strange elation and +satisfaction. + +“It might as well have been the sea as any other way, dear,” she said, +startling both of them. The speech went across their thoughtfulness +like a star flying into the night, from nowhere. She had no idea why +she said it. He pressed his mouth on hers. “Not for you,” he thought, +by reflex. “You can’t go that way yet.” But he said nothing, strained +her very tightly, and kept her lips. + +They were roused by the sound of voices. Unclasping, they went to walk +at the fringe of the water. The tide was creeping back. Siegmund +stooped, and from among the water’s combings picked up an +electric-light bulb. It lay in some weed at the base of a rock. He held +it in his hand to Helena. Her face lighted with a curious pleasure. She +took the thing delicately from his hand, fingered it with her exquisite +softness. + +“Isn’t it remarkable!” she exclaimed joyously. “The sea must be very, +very gentle—and very kind.” + +“Sometimes,” smiled Siegmund. + +“But I did not think it could be so fine-fingered,” she said. She +breathed on the glass bulb till it looked like a dim magnolia bud; she +inhaled its fine savour. + +“It would not have treated _you_ so well,” he said. She looked at him +with heavy eyes. Then she returned to her bulb. Her fingers were very +small and very pink. She had the most delicate touch in the world, like +a faint feel of silk. As he watched her lifting her fingers from off +the glass, then gently stroking it, his blood ran hot. He watched her, +waited upon her words and movements attentively. + +“It is a graceful act on the sea’s part,” she said. “Wotan is so +clumsy—he knocks over the bowl, and flap-flap-flap go the gasping +fishes, _pizzicato_!—but the sea—” + +Helena’s speech was often difficult to render into plain terms. She was +not lucid. + +“But life’s so full of anti-climax,” she concluded. Siegmund smiled +softly at her. She had him too much in love to disagree or to examine +her words. + +“There’s no reckoning with life, and no reckoning with the sea. The +only way to get on with both is to be as near a vacuum as possible, and +float,” he jested. It hurt her that he was flippant. She proceeded to +forget he had spoken. + +There were three children on the beach. Helena had handed him back the +senseless bauble, not able to throw it away. Being a father: + +“I will give it to the children,” he said. + +She looked up at him, loved him for the thought. + +Wandering hand in hand, for it pleased them both to own each other +publicly, after years of conventional distance, they came to a little +girl who was bending over a pool. Her black hair hung in long snakes to +the water. She stood up, flung back her locks to see them as they +approached. In one hand she clasped some pebbles. + +“Would you like this? I found it down there,” said Siegmund, offering +her the bulb. + +She looked at him with grave blue eyes and accepted his gift. Evidently +she was not going to say anything. + +“The sea brought it all the way from the mainland without breaking it,” +said Helena, with the interesting intonation some folk use to children. + +The girl looked at her. + +“The waves put it out of their lap on to some seaweed with such careful +fingers—” + +The child’s eyes brightened. + +“The tide-line is full of treasures,” said Helena, smiling. + +The child answered her smile a little. + +Siegmund had walked away. + +“What beautiful eyes she had!” said Helena. + +“Yes,” he replied. + +She looked up at him. He felt her searching him tenderly with her eyes. +But he could not look back at her. She took his hand and kissed it, +knowing he was thinking of his own youngest child. + + + + +VIII + + +The way home lay across country, through deep little lanes where the +late foxgloves sat seriously, like sad hounds; over open downlands, +rough with gorse and ling, and through pocketed hollows of bracken and +trees. + +They came to a small Roman Catholic church in the fields. There the +carved Christ looked down on the dead whose sleeping forms made mounds +under the coverlet. Helena’s heart was swelling with emotion. All the +yearning and pathos of Christianity filled her again. + +The path skirted the churchyard wall, so that she had on the one hand +the sleeping dead, and on the other Siegmund, strong and vigorous, but +walking in the old, dejected fashion. She felt a rare tenderness and +admiration for him. It was unusual for her to be so humble-minded, but +this evening she felt she must minister to him, and be submissive. + +She made him stop to look at the graves. Suddenly, as they stood, she +kissed him, clasped him fervently, roused him till his passion burned +away his heaviness, and he seemed tipped with life, his face glowing as +if soon he would burst alight. Then she was satisfied, and could laugh. + +As they went through the fir copse, listening to the birds like a +family assembled and chattering at home in the evening, listening to +the light swish of the wind, she let Siegmund predominate; he set the +swing of their motion; she rested on him like a bird on a swaying +bough. + +They argued concerning the way. Siegmund, as usual, submitted to her. +They went quite wrong. As they retraced their steps, stealthily, +through a poultry farm whose fowls were standing in forlorn groups, +once more dismayed by evening, Helena’s pride battled with her new +subjugation to Siegmund. She walked head down, saying nothing. He also +was silent, but his heart was strong in him. Somewhere in the distance +a band was playing “The Watch on the Rhine”. + +As they passed the beeches and were near home, Helena said, to try him, +and to strike a last blow for her pride: + +“I wonder what next Monday will bring us.” + +“Quick curtain,” he answered joyously. He was looking down and smiling +at her with such careless happiness that she loved him. He was +wonderful to her. She loved him, was jealous of every particle of him +that evaded her. She wanted to sacrifice to him, make herself a burning +altar to him, and she wanted to possess him. + +The hours that would be purely their own came too slowly for her. + +That night she met his passion with love. It was not his passion she +wanted, actually. But she desired that he should want _her_ madly, and +that he should have all—everything. It was a wonderful night to him. It +restored in him the full “will to live”. But she felt it destroyed her. +Her soul seemed blasted. + +At seven o’clock in the morning Helena lay in the deliciously cool +water, while small waves ran up the beach full and clear and foamless, +continuing perfectly in their flicker the rhythm of the night’s +passion. Nothing, she felt, had ever been so delightful as this cool +water running over her. She lay and looked out on the shining sea. All +things, it seemed, were made of sunshine more or less soiled. The +cliffs rose out of the shining waves like clouds of strong, fine +texture, and rocks along the shore were the dapplings of a bright dawn. +The coarseness was fused out of the world, so that sunlight showed in +the veins of the morning cliffs and the rocks. Yea, everything ran with +sunshine, as we are full of blood, and plants are tissued from +green-gold, glistening sap. Substance and solidity were shadows that +the morning cast round itself to make itself tangible: as she herself +was a shadow, cast by that fragment of sunshine, her soul, over its +inefficiency. + +She remembered to have seen the bats flying low over a burnished pool +at sunset, and the web of their wings had burned in scarlet flickers, +as they stretched across the light. Winged momentarily on bits of +tissued flame, threaded with blood, the bats had flickered a secret to +her. + +Now the cliffs were like wings uplifted, and the morning was coming +dimly through them. She felt the wings of all the world upraised +against the morning in a flashing, multitudinous flight. The world +itself was flying. Sunlight poured on the large round world till she +fancied it a heavy bee humming on its iridescent atmosphere across a +vast air of sunshine. + +She lay and rode the fine journey. Sunlight liquid in the water made +the waves heavy, golden, and rich with a velvety coolness like +cowslips. Her feet fluttered in the shadowy underwater. Her breast came +out bright as the breast of a white bird. + +Where was Siegmund? she wondered. He also was somewhere among the sea +and the sunshine, white and playing like a bird, shining like a vivid, +restless speck of sunlight. She struck the water, smiling, feeling +along with him. They two were the owners of this morning, as a pair of +wild, large birds inhabiting an empty sea. + +Siegmund had found a white cave welling with green water, brilliant and +full of life as mounting sap. The white rock glimmered through the +water, and soon Siegmund shimmered also in the living green of the sea, +like pale flowers trembling upward. + +“The water,” said Siegmund, “is as full of life as I am,” and he +pressed forward his breast against it. He swam very well that morning; +he had more wilful life than the sea, so he mastered it laughingly with +his arms, feeling a delight in his triumph over the waves. Venturing +recklessly in his new pride, he swam round the corner of the rock, +through an archway, lofty and spacious, into a passage where the water +ran like a flood of green light over the skin-white bottom. Suddenly he +emerged in the brilliant daylight of the next tiny scoop of a bay. + +There he arrived like a pioneer, for the bay was inaccessible from the +land. He waded out of the green, cold water on to sand that was pure as +the shoulders of Helena, out of the shadow of the archway into the +sunlight, on to the glistening petal of this blossom of a sea-bay. + +He did not know till he felt the sunlight how the sea had drunk with +its cold lips deeply of his warmth. Throwing himself down on the sand +that was soft and warm as white fur, he lay glistening wet, panting, +swelling with glad pride at having conquered also this small, +inaccessible sea-cave, creeping into it like a white bee into a white +virgin blossom that had waited, how long, for its bee. + +The sand was warm to his breast, and his belly, and his arms. It was +like a great body he cleaved to. Almost, he fancied, he felt it heaving +under him in its breathing. Then he turned his face to the sun, and +laughed. All the while, he hugged the warm body of the sea-bay beneath +him. He spread his hands upon the sand; he took it in handfuls, and let +it run smooth, warm, delightful, through his fingers. + +“Surely,” he said to himself, “it is like Helena;” and he laid his +hands again on the warm body of the shore, let them wander, +discovering, gathering all the warmth, the softness, the strange wonder +of smooth warm pebbles, then shrinking from the deep weight of cold his +hand encountered as he burrowed under the surface wrist-deep. In the +end he found the cold mystery of the deep sand also thrilling. He +pushed in his hands again and deeper, enjoying the almost hurt of the +dark, heavy coldness. For the sun and the white flower of the bay were +breathing and kissing him dry, were holding him in their warm concave, +like a bee in a flower, like himself on the bosom of Helena, and +flowing like the warmth of her breath in his hair came the sunshine, +breathing near and lovingly; yet, under all, was this deep mass of +cold, that the softness and warmth merely floated upon. + +Siegmund lay and clasped the sand, and tossed it in handfuls till over +him he was all hot and cloyed. Then he rose and looked at himself and +laughed. The water was swaying reproachfully against the steep pebbles +below, murmuring like a child that it was not fair—it was not fair he +should abandon his playmate. Siegmund laughed, and began to rub himself +free of the clogging sand. He found himself strangely dry and smooth. +He tossed more dry sand, and more, over himself, busy and intent like a +child playing some absorbing game with itself. Soon his body was dry +and warm and smooth as a camomile flower. He was, however, greyed and +smeared with sand-dust. Siegmund looked at himself with disapproval, +though his body was full of delight and his hands glad with the touch +of himself. He wanted himself clean. He felt the sand thick in his +hair, even in his moustache. He went painfully over the pebbles till he +found himself on the smooth rock bottom. Then he soused himself, and +shook his head in the water, and washed and splashed and rubbed himself +with his hands assiduously. He must feel perfectly clean and +free—fresh, as if he had washed away all the years of soilure in this +morning’s sea and sun and sand. It was the purification. Siegmund +became again a happy priest of the sun. He felt as if all the dirt of +misery were soaked out of him, as he might soak clean a soiled garment +in the sea, and bleach it white on the sunny shore. So white and sweet +and tissue-clean he felt—full of lightness and grace. + +The garden in front of their house, where Helena was waiting for him, +was long and crooked, with a sunken flagstone pavement running up to +the door by the side of the lawn. On either hand the high fence of the +garden was heavy with wild clematis and honeysuckle. Helena sat +sideways, with a map spread out on her bench under the bushy little +laburnum tree, tracing the course of their wanderings. It was very +still. There was just a murmur of bees going in and out the brilliant +little porches of nasturtium flowers. The nasturtium leaf-coins stood +cool and grey; in their delicate shade, underneath in the green +twilight, a few flowers shone their submerged gold and scarlet. There +was a faint scent of mignonette. Helena, like a white butterfly in the +shade, her two white arms for antennae stretching firmly to the bench, +leaned over her map. She was busy, very busy, out of sheer happiness. +She traced word after word, and evoked scene after scene. As she +discovered a name, she conjured up the place. As she moved to the next +mark she imagined the long path lifting and falling happily. + +She was waiting for Siegmund, yet his hand upon the latch startled her. +She rose suddenly, in agitation. Siegmund was standing in the sunshine +at the gate. They greeted each other across the tall roses. + +When Siegmund was holding her hand, he said, softly laughing: + +“You have come out of the water very beautiful this morning.” + +She laughed. She was not beautiful, but she felt so at that moment. She +glanced up at him, full of love and gratefulness. + +“And you,” she murmured, in a still tone, as if it were almost +sacrilegiously unnecessary to say it. + +Siegmund was glad. He rejoiced to be told he was beautiful. After a few +moments of listening to the bees and breathing the mignonette, he said: + +“I found a little white bay, just like you—a virgin bay. I had to swim +there.” + +“Oh!” she said, very interested in him, not in the fact. + +“It seemed just like you. Many things seem like you,” he said. + +She laughed again in her joyous fashion, and the reed-like vibration +came into her voice. + +“I saw the sun through the cliffs, and the sea, and you,” she said. + +He did not understand. He looked at her searchingly. She was white and +still and inscrutable. Then she looked up at him; her earnest eyes, +that would not flinch, gazed straight into him. He trembled, and things +all swept into a blur. After she had taken away her eyes he found +himself saying: + +“You know, I felt as if I were the first man to discover things: like +Adam when he opened the first eyes in the world.” + +“I saw the sunshine in you,” repeated Helena quietly, looking at him +with her eyes heavy with meaning. + +He laughed again, not understanding, but feeling she meant love. + +“No, but you have altered everything,” he said. + +The note of wonder, of joy, in his voice touched her almost beyond +self-control. She caught his hand and pressed it; then quickly kissed +it. He became suddenly grave. + +“I feel as if it were right—you and me, Helena—so, even righteous. It +is so, isn’t it? And the sea and everything, they all seem with us. Do +you think so?” + +Looking at her, he found her eyes full of tears. He bent and kissed +her, and she pressed his head to her bosom. He was very glad. + + + + +IX + + +The day waxed hot. A few little silver tortoises of cloud had crawled +across the desert of sky, and hidden themselves. The chalk roads were +white, quivering with heat. Helena and Siegmund walked eastward +bareheaded under the sunshine. They felt like two insects in the niche +of a hot hearth as they toiled along the deep road. A few poppies here +and there among the wild rye floated scarlet in sunshine like +blood-drops on green water. Helena recalled Francis Thompson’s poems, +which Siegmund had never read. She repeated what she knew, and laughed, +thinking what an ineffectual pale shadow of a person Thompson must have +been. She looked at Siegmund, walking in large easiness beside her. + +“Artists are supremely unfortunate persons,” she announced. + +“Think of Wagner,” said Siegmund, lifting his face to the hot bright +heaven, and drinking the heat with his blinded face. All states seemed +meagre, save his own. He recalled people who had loved, and he pitied +them—dimly, drowsily, without pain. + +They came to a place where they might gain access to the shore by a +path down a landslip. As they descended through the rockery, yellow +with ragwort, they felt themselves dip into the inert, hot air of the +bay. The living atmosphere of the uplands was left overhead. Among the +rocks of the sand, white as if smelted, the heat glowed and quivered. +Helena sat down and took off her shoes. She walked on the hot, +glistening sand till her feet were delightfully, almost intoxicatingly +scorched. Then she ran into the water to cool them. Siegmund and she +paddled in the light water, pensively watching the haste of the +ripples, like crystal beetles, running over the white outline of their +feet; looking out on the sea that rose so near to them, dwarfing them +by its far reach. + +For a short time they flitted silently in the water’s edge. Then there +settled down on them a twilight of sleep, the little hush that closes +the doors and draws the blinds of the house after a festival. They +wandered out across the beach above high-water mark, where they sat +down together on the sand, leaning back against a flat brown stone, +Siegmund with the sunshine on his forehead, Helena drooping close to +him, in his shadow. Then the hours ride by unnoticed, making no sound +as they go. The sea creeps nearer, nearer, like a snake which watches +two birds asleep. It may not disturb them, but sinks back, ceasing to +look at them with its bright eyes. + +Meanwhile the flowers of their passion were softly shed, as poppies +fall at noon, and the seed of beauty ripened rapidly within them. +Dreams came like a wind through, their souls, drifting off with the +seed-dust of beautiful experience which they had ripened, to fertilize +the souls of others withal. In them the sea and the sky and ships had +mingled and bred new blossoms of the torrid heat of their love. And the +seed of such blossoms was shaken as they slept, into the hand of God, +who held it in His palm preciously; then scattered it again, to produce +new splendid blooms of beauty. + +A little breeze came down the cliffs. Sleep lightened the lovers of +their experience; new buds were urged in their souls as they lay in a +shadowed twilight, at the porch of death. The breeze fanned the face of +Helena; a coolness wafted on her throat. As the afternoon wore on she +revived. Quick to flag, she was easy to revive, like a white pansy +flung into water. She shivered lightly and rose. + +Strange, it seemed to her, to rise from the brown stone into life +again. She felt beautifully refreshed. All around was quick as a garden +wet in the early morning of June. She took her hair and loosened it, +shook it free from sand, spread, and laughed like a fringed poppy that +opens itself to the sun. She let the wind comb through its soft fingers +the tangles of her hair. Helena loved the wind. She turned to it, and +took its kisses on her face and throat. + +Siegmund lay still, looking up at her. The changes in him were deeper, +like alteration in his tissue. His new buds came slowly, and were of a +fresh type. He lay smiling at her. At last he said: + +“You look now as if you belonged to the sea.” + +“I do; and some day I shall go back to it,” she replied. + +For to her at that moment the sea was a great lover, like Siegmund, but +more impersonal, who would receive her when Siegmund could not. She +rejoiced momentarily in the fact. Siegmund looked at her and continued +smiling. His happiness was budded firm and secure. + +“Come!” said Helena, holding out her hand. + +He rose somewhat reluctantly from his large, fruitful inertia. + + + + +X + + +Siegmund carried the boots and the shoes while they wandered over the +sand to the rocks. There was a delightful sense of risk in scrambling +with bare feet over the smooth irregular jumble of rocks. Helena +laughed suddenly from fear as she felt herself slipping. Siegmund’s +heart was leaping like a child’s with excitement as he stretched +forward, himself very insecure, to succour her. Thus they travelled +slowly. Often she called to him to come and look in the lovely little +rock-pools, dusky with blossoms of red anemones and brown anemones that +seemed nothing but shadows, and curtained with green of finest +sea-silk. Siegmund loved to poke the white pebbles, and startle the +little ghosts of crabs in a shadowy scuttle through the weed. He would +tease the expectant anemones, causing them to close suddenly over his +finger. But Helena liked to watch without touching things. Meanwhile +the sun was slanting behind the cross far away to the west, and the +light was swimming in silver and gold upon the lacquered water. At last +Siegmund looked doubtfully at two miles more of glistening, gilded +boulders. Helena was seated on a stone, dabbling her feet in a warm +pool, delicately feeling the wet sea-velvet of the weeds. + +“Don’t you think we had better be mounting the cliffs?” he said. + +She glanced up at him, smiling with irresponsible eyes. Then she lapped +the water with her feet, and surveyed her pink toes. She was absurdly, +childishly happy. + +“Why should we?” she asked lightly. + +He watched her. Her child-like indifference to consequences touched him +with a sense of the distance between them. He himself might play with +the delicious warm surface of life, but always he reeked of the +relentless mass of cold beneath—the mass of life which has no sympathy +with the individual, no cognizance of him. + +She loved the trifles and the toys, the mystery and the magic of +things. She would not own life to be relentless. It was either +beautiful, fantastic, or weird, or inscrutable, or else mean and +vulgar, below consideration. He had to get a sense of the anemone and a +sympathetic knowledge of its experience, into his blood, before he was +satisfied. To Helena an anemone was one more fantastic pretty figure in +her kaleidoscope. + +So she sat dabbling her pink feet in the water, quite unconscious of +his gravity. He waited on her, since he never could capture her. + +“Come,” he said very gently. “You are only six years old today.” + +She laughed as she let him take her. Then she nestled up to him, +smiling in a brilliant, child-like fashion. He kissed her with all the +father in him sadly alive. + +“Now put your stockings on,” he said. + +“But my feet are wet.” She laughed. + +He kneeled down and dried her feet on his handkerchief while she sat +tossing his hair with her finger-tips. The sunlight grew more and more +golden. + +“I envy the savages their free feet,” she said. + +“There is no broken glass in the wilderness—or there used not to be,” +he replied. + +As they were crossing the sands, a whole family entered by the cliff +track. They descended in single file, unequally, like the theatre; two +boys, then a little girl, the father, another girl, then the mother. +Last of all trotted the dog, warily, suspicious of the descent. The +boys emerged into the bay with a shout; the dog rushed, barking, after +them. The little one waited for her father, calling shrilly: + +“Tiss can’t fall now, can she, dadda? Shall I put her down?” + +“Ay, let her have a run,” said the father. + +Very carefully she lowered the kitten which she had carried clasped to +her bosom. The mite was bewildered and scared. It turned round +pathetically. + +“Go on, Tissie; you’re all right,” said the child. “Go on; have a run +on the sand.” + +The kitten stood dubious and unhappy. Then, perceiving the dog some +distance ahead, it scampered after him, a fluffy, scurrying mite. But +the dog had already raced into the water. The kitten walked a few +steps, turning its small face this way and that, and mewing piteously. +It looked extraordinarily tiny as it stood, a fluffy handful, staring +away from the noisy water, its thin cry floating over the plash of +waves. + +Helena glanced at Siegmund, and her eyes were shining with pity. He was +watching the kitten and smiling. + +“Crying because things are too big, and it can’t take them in,” he +said. + +“But look how frightened it is,” she said. + +“So am I.” He laughed. “And if there are any gods looking on and +laughing at me, at least they won’t be kind enough to put me in their +pinafores….” + +She laughed very quickly. + +“But why?” she exclaimed. “Why should you want putting in a pinafore?” + +“I don’t,” he laughed. + +On the top of the cliff they were between two bays, with darkening blue +water on the left, and on the right gold water smoothing to the sun. +Siegmund seemed to stand waist-deep in shadow, with his face bright and +glowing. He was watching earnestly. + +“I want to absorb it all,” he said. + +When at last they turned away: + +“Yes,” said Helena slowly; “one can recall the details, but never the +atmosphere.” + +He pondered a moment. + +“How strange!” he said. I can recall the atmosphere, but not the +detail. It is a moment to me, not a piece of scenery. I should say the +picture was in me, not out there.” + +Without troubling to understand—she was inclined to think it +verbiage—she made a small sound of assent. + +“That is why you want to go again to a place, and I don’t care so much, +because I have it with me,” he concluded. + + + + +XI + + +They decided to find their way through the lanes to Alum Bay, and then, +keeping the cross in sight, to return over the downs, with the +moon-path broad on the water before them. For the moon was rising late. +Twilight, however, rose more rapidly than they had anticipated. The +lane twisted among meadows and wild lands and copses—a wilful little +lane, quite incomprehensible. So they lost their distant landmark, the +white cross. + +Darkness filtered through the daylight. When at last they came to a +signpost, it was almost too dark to read it. The fingers seemed to +withdraw into the dusk the more they looked. + +“We must go to the left,” said Helena. + +To the left rose the downs, smooth and grey near at hand, but higher +black with gorse, like a giant lying asleep with a bearskin over his +shoulders. + +Several pale chalk-tracks ran side by side through the turf. Climbing, +they came to a disused chalk-pit, which they circumvented. Having +passed a lonely farmhouse, they mounted the side of the open down, +where was a sense of space and freedom. + +“We can steer by the night,” said Siegmund, as they trod upwards +pathlessly. Helena did not mind whither they steered. All places in +that large fair night were home and welcome to her. They drew nearer to +the shaggy cloak of furze. + +“There will be a path through it,” said Siegmund. + +But when they arrived there was no path. They were confronted by a +tall, impenetrable growth of gorse, taller than Siegmund. + +“Stay here,” said he, “while I look for a way through. I am afraid you +will be tired.” + +She stood alone by the walls of gorse. The lights that had flickered +into being during the dusk grew stronger, so that a little farmhouse +down the hill glowed with great importance on the night, while the +far-off in visible sea became like a roadway, large and mysterious, its +specks of light moving slowly, and its bigger lamps stationed out amid +the darkness. Helena wanted the day-wanness to be quite wiped off the +west. She asked for the full black night, that would obliterate +everything save Siegmund. Siegmund it was that the whole world meant. +The darkness, the gorse, the downs, the specks of light, seemed only to +bespeak him. She waited for him to come back. She could hardly endure +the condition of intense waiting. + +He came, in his grey clothes almost invisible. But she felt him coming. + +“No good,” he said, “no vestige of a path. Not a rabbit-run.” + +“Then we will sit down awhile,” said she calmly. + +“‘Here on this mole-hill,’” he quoted mockingly. + +They sat down in a small gap in the gorse, where the turf was very +soft, and where the darkness seemed deeper. The night was all +fragrance, cool odour of darkness, keen, savoury scent of the downs, +touched with honeysuckle and gorse and bracken scent. + +Helena turned to him, leaning her hand on his thigh. + +“What day is it, Siegmund?” she asked, in a joyous, wondering tone. He +laughed, understanding, and kissed her. + +“But really,” she insisted, “I would not have believed the labels could +have fallen off everything like this.” + +He laughed again. She still leaned towards him, her weight on her hand, +stopping the flow in the artery down his thigh. + +“The days used to walk in procession like seven marionettes, each in +order and costume, going endlessly round.” She laughed, amused at the +idea. + +“It is very strange,” she continued, “to have the days and nights +smeared into one piece, as if the clock-hand only went round once in a +lifetime.” + +“That is how it is,” he admitted, touched by her eloquence. “You have +torn the labels off things, and they all are so different. This +morning! It does seem absurd to talk about this morning. Why should I +be parcelled up into mornings and evenings and nights? _I_ am not made +up of sections of time. Now, nights and days go racing over us like +cloud-shadows and sunshine over the sea, and all the time we take no +notice.” + +She put her arms round his neck. He was reminded by a sudden pain in +his leg how much her hand had been pressing on him. He held his breath +from pain. She was kissing him softly over the eyes. They lay cheek to +cheek, looking at the stars. He felt a peculiar tingling sense of joy, +a keenness of perception, a fine, delicate tingling as of music. + +“You know,” he said, repeating himself, “it is true. You seem to have +knit all things in a piece for me. Things are not separate; they are +all in a symphony. They go moving on and on. You are the motive in +everything.” + +Helena lay beside him, half upon him, sad with bliss. + +“You must write a symphony of this—of us,” she said, prompted by a +disciple’s vanity. + +“Some time,” he answered. “Later, when I have time.” + +“Later,” she murmured—“later than what?” + +“I don’t know,” he replied. “This is so bright we can’t see beyond.” He +turned his face to hers and through the darkness smiled into her eyes +that were so close to his. Then he kissed her long and lovingly. He +lay, with her head on his shoulder looking through her hair at the +stars. + +“I wonder how it is you have such a fine natural perfume,” he said, +always in the same abstract, inquiring tone of happiness. + +“Haven’t all women?” she replied, and the peculiar penetrating twang of +a brass reed was again in her voice. + +“I don’t know,” he said, quite untouched. “But you are scented like +nuts, new kernels of hazel-nuts, and a touch of opium….” He remained +abstractedly breathing her with his open mouth, quite absorbed in her. + +“You are so strange,” she murmured tenderly, hardly able to control her +voice to speak. + +“I believe,” he said slowly, “I can see the stars moving through your +hair. No, keep still, _you_ can’t see them.” Helena lay obediently very +still. “I thought I could watch them travelling, crawling like gold +flies on the ceiling,” he continued in a slow sing-song. “But now you +make your hair tremble, and the stars rush about.” Then, as a new +thought struck him: “Have you noticed that you can’t recognize the +constellations lying back like this. I can’t see one. Where is the +north, even?” + +She laughed at the idea of his questioning her concerning these things. +She refused to learn the names of the stars or of the constellations, +as of the wayside plants. “Why should I want to label them?” she would +say. “I prefer to look at them, not to hide them under a name.” So she +laughed when he asked her to find Vega or Arcturus. + +“How full the sky is!” Siegmund dreamed on—“like a crowded street. Down +here it is vastly lonely in comparison. We’ve found a place far quieter +and more private than the stars, Helena. Isn’t it fine to be up here, +with the sky for nearest neighbour?” + +“I did well to ask you to come?” she inquired wistfully. He turned to +her. + +“As wise as God for the minute,” he replied softly. “I think a few +furtive angels brought us here—smuggled us in.” + +“And you are glad?” she asked. He laughed. + +“_Carpe diem_,” he said. “We have plucked a beauty, my dear. With this +rose in my coat I dare go to hell or anywhere.” + +“Why hell, Siegmund?” she asked in displeasure. + +“I suppose it is the _postero_. In everything else I’m a failure, +Helena. But,” he laughed, “this day of ours is a rose not many men have +plucked.” + +She kissed him passionately, beginning to cry in a quick, noiseless +fashion. + +“What does it matter, Helena?” he murmured. “What does it matter? We +are here yet.” + +The quiet tone of Siegmund moved her with a vivid passion of grief. She +felt she should lose him. Clasping him very closely, she burst into +uncontrollable sobbing. He did not understand, but he did not interrupt +her. He merely held her very close, while he looked through her shaking +hair at the motionless stars. He bent his head to hers, he sought her +face with his lips, heavy with pity. She grew a little quieter. He felt +his cheek all wet with her tears, and, between his cheek and hers, the +ravelled roughness of her wet hair that chafed and made his face burn. + +“What is it, Helena?” he asked at last. “Why should you cry?” + +She pressed her face in his breast, and said in a muffled, +unrecognizable voice: + +“You won’t leave me, will you, Siegmund?” + +“How could I? How should I?” he murmured soothingly. She lifted her +face suddenly and pressed on him a fierce kiss. + +“How could I leave you?” he repeated, and she heard his voice waking, +the grip coming into his arms, and she was glad. + +An intense silence came over everything. Helena almost expected to hear +the stars moving, everything below was so still. She had no idea what +Siegmund was thinking. He lay with his arms strong around her. Then she +heard the beating of his heart, like the muffled sound of salutes, she +thought. It gave her the same thrill of dread and excitement, mingled +with a sense of triumph. Siegmund had changed again, his mood was gone, +so that he was no longer wandering in a night of thoughts, but had +become different, incomprehensible to her. She had no idea what she +thought or felt. All she knew was that he was strong, and was knocking +urgently with his heart on her breast, like a man who wanted something +and who dreaded to be sent away. How he came to be so concentratedly +urgent she could not understand. It seemed an unreasonable an +incomprehensible obsession to her. Yet she was glad, and she smiled in +her heart, feeling triumphant and restored. Yet again, dimly, she +wondered where was the Siegmund of ten minutes ago, and her heart +lifted slightly with yearning, to sink with a dismay. This Siegmund was +so incomprehensible. Then again, when he raised his head and found her +mouth, his lips filled her with a hot flush like wine, a sweet, flaming +flush of her whole body, most exquisite, as if she were nothing but a +soft rosy flame of fire against him for a moment or two. That, she +decided, was supreme, transcendental. + +The lights of the little farmhouse below had vanished, the yellow +specks of ships were gone. Only the pier-light, far away, shone in the +black sea like the broken piece of a star. Overhead was a +silver-greyness of stars; below was the velvet blackness of the night +and the sea. Helena found herself glimmering with fragments of poetry, +as she saw the sea, when she looked very closely, glimmered dustily +with a reflection of stars. + +Tiefe Stille herrscht im Wasser +Ohne Regung ruht das Meer … + + +She was fond of what scraps of German verse she knew. With French verse +she had no sympathy; but Goethe and Heine and Uhland seemed to speak +her language. + +Die Luft ist kühl, und es dunkelt, +Und ruhig fliesst der Rhein. + + +She liked Heine best of all: + +Wie Träume der Kindheit seh’ ich es flimmern +Auf deinem wogenden Wellengebiet, +Und alte Erinnerung erzählt mir auf’s Neue +Von all dem lieben herrlichen Spielzeug, +Von all den blinkenden Weihnachtsgaben…. + + +As she lay in Siegmund’s arms again, and he was very still, dreaming +she knew not what, fragments such as these flickered and were gone, +like the gleam of a falling star over water. The night moved on +imperceptibly across the sky. Unlike the day, it made no sound and gave +no sign, but passed unseen, unfelt, over them. Till the moon was ready +to step forth. Then the eastern sky blenched, and there was a small +gathering of clouds round the opening gates: + +Aus alten Märchen winket es +Hervor mit weisser Hand, +Da singt es und da klingt es +Von einem Zauberland. + + +Helena sang this to herself as the moon lifted herself slowly among the +clouds. She found herself repeating them aloud in in a forgetful +singsong, as children do. + +“What is it?” said Siegmund. They were both of them sunk in their own +stillness, therefore it was a moment or two before she repeated her +singsong, in a little louder tone. He did not listen to her, having +forgotten that he had asked her a question. + +“Turn your head,” she told him, when she had finished the verse, “and +look at the moon.” + +He pressed back his head, so that there was a gleaming pallor on his +chin and his forehead and deep black shadow over his eyes and his +nostrils. This thrilled Helena with a sense of mystery and magic. + +“‘_Die grossen Blumen schmachten_,’” she said to herself, curiously +awake and joyous. “The big flowers open with black petals and silvery +ones, Siegmund. You are the big flowers, Siegmund; yours is the +bridegroom face, Siegmund, like a black and glistening flesh-petalled +flower, Siegmund, and it blooms in the _Zauberland_, Siegmund—this is +the magic land.” + +Between the phrases of this whispered ecstasy she kissed him swiftly on +the throat, in the shadow, and on his faintly gleaming cheeks. He lay +still, his heart beating heavily; he was almost afraid of the strange +ecstasy she concentrated on him. Meanwhile she whispered over him +sharp, breathless phrases in German and English, touching him with her +mouth and her cheeks and her forehead. + +“‘_Und Liebesweisen tönen_’-not tonight, Siegmund. They are all +still-gorse and the stars and the sea and the trees, are all kissing, +Siegmund. The sea has its mouth on the earth, and the gorse and the +trees press together, and they all look up at the moon, they put up +their faces in a kiss, my darling. But they haven’t you-and it all +centres in you, my dear, all the wonder-love is in you, more than in +them all Siegmund—Siegmund!” + +He felt the tears falling on him as he lay with heart beating in slow +heavy drops under the ecstasy of her love. Then she sank down and lay +prone on him, spent, clinging to him, lifted up and down by the +beautiful strong motion of his breathing. Rocked thus on his strength, +she swooned lightly into unconsciousness. + +When she came to herself she sighed deeply. She woke to the exquisite +heaving of his life beneath her. + +“I have been beyond life. I have been a little way into death!” she +said to her soul, with wide-eyed delight. She lay dazed, wondering upon +it. That she should come back into a marvellous, peaceful happiness +astonished her. + +Suddenly she became aware that she must be slowly weighing down the +life of Siegmund. There was a long space between the lift of one breath +and the next. Her heart melted with sorrowful pity. Resting herself on +her hands, she kissed him—a long, anguished kiss, as if she would fuse +her soul into his for ever. Then she rose, sighing, sighing again +deeply. She put up her hands to her head and looked at the moon. “No +more,” said her heart, almost as if it sighed too-“no more!” + +She looked down at Siegmund. He was drawing in great heavy breaths. He +lay still on his back, gazing up at her, and she stood motionless at +his side, looking down at him. He felt stunned, half-conscious. Yet as +he lay helplessly looking up at her some other consciousness inside him +murmured; “Hawwa—Eve—Mother!” She stood compassionate over him. Without +touching him she seemed to be yearning over him like a mother. Her +compassion, her benignity, seemed so different from his little Helena. +This woman, tall and pale, drooping with the strength of her +compassion, seemed stable, immortal, not a fragile human being, but a +personification of the great motherhood of women. + +“I am her child, too,” he dreamed, as a child murmurs unconscious in +sleep. He had never felt her eyes so much as now, in the darkness, when +he looked only into deep shadow. She had never before so entered and +gathered his plaintive masculine soul to the bosom of her nurture. + +“Come,” she said gently, when she knew he was restored. “Shall we go?” + +He rose, with difficulty gathering his strength. + + + + +XII + + +Siegmund made a great effort to keep the control of his body. The +hill-side, the gorse, when he stood up, seemed to have fallen back into +shadowed vagueness about him. They were meaningless dark heaps at some +distance, very great, it seemed. + +“I can’t get hold of them,” he said distractedly to himself. He felt +detached from the earth, from all the near, concrete, beloved things; +as if these had melted away from him, and left him, sick and +unsupported, somewhere alone on the edge of an enormous space. He +wanted to lie down again, to relieve himself of the sickening effort of +supporting and controlling his body. If he could lie down again +perfectly still he need not struggle to animate the cumbersome matter +of his body, and then he would not feel thus sick and outside himself. + +But Helena was speaking to him, telling him they would see the +moon-path. They must set off downhill. He felt her arm clasped firmly, +joyously, round his waist. Therein was his stability and warm support. +Siegmund felt a keen flush of pitiful tenderness for her as she walked +with buoyant feet beside him, clasping him so happily, all unconscious. +This pity for her drew him nearer to life. + +He shuddered lightly now and again, as they stepped lurching down the +hill. He set his jaws hard to suppress this shuddering. It was not in +his limbs, or even on the surface of his body, for Helena did not +notice it. Yet he shuddered almost in anguish internally. + +“What is it?” he asked himself in wonder. + +His thought consisted of these detached phrases, which he spoke +verbally to himself. Between-whiles he was conscious only of an almost +insupportable feeling of sickness, as a man feels who is being brought +from under an anaesthetic; also he was vaguely aware of a teeming stir +of activity, such as one may hear from a closed hive, within him. + +They swung rapidly downhill. Siegmund still shuddered, but not so +uncontrollably. They came to a stile which they must climb. As he +stepped over it needed a concentrated effort of will to place his foot +securely on the step. The effort was so great that he became conscious +of it. + +“Good Lord!” he said to himself. “I wonder what it is.” + +He tried to examine himself. He thought of all the organs of his +body—his brain, his heart, his liver. There was no pain, and nothing +wrong with any of them, he was sure. His dim searching resolved itself +into another detached phrase. “There is nothing the matter with me,” he +said. + +Then he continued vaguely wondering, recalling the sensation of +wretched sickness which sometimes follows drunkenness, thinking of the +times when he had fallen ill. + +“But I am not like that,” he said, “because I don’t feel tremulous. I +am sure my hand is steady.” + +Helena stood still to consider the road. He held out his hand before +him. It was motionless as a dead flower on this silent night. + +“Yes, I think this is the right way,” said Helena, and they set off +again, as if gaily. + +“It certainly feels rather deathly,” said Siegmund to himself. He +remembered distinctly, when he was a child and had diphtheria, he had +stretched himself in the horrible sickness, which he felt was—and here +he chose the French word—“_l’agonie_”. But his mother had seen and had +cried aloud, which suddenly caused him to struggle with all his soul to +spare her her suffering. + +“Certainly it is like that,” he said. “Certainly it is rather deathly. +I wonder how it is.” + +Then he reviewed the last hour. + +“I believe we are lost!” Helena interrupted him. + +“Lost! What matter!” he answered indifferently, and Helena pressed him +tighter, hearer to her in a kind of triumph. “But did we not come this +way?” he added. + +“No. See”—her voice was reeded with restrained emotion—“we have +certainly not been along this bare path which dips up and down.” + +“Well, then, we must merely keep due eastward, towards the moon pretty +well, as much as we can,” said Siegmund, looking forward over the down, +where the moon was wrestling heroically to win free of the pack of +clouds which hung on her like wolves on a white deer. As he looked at +the moon he felt a sense of companionship. Helena, not understanding, +left him so much alone; the moon was nearer. + +Siegmund continued to review the last hours. He had been so wondrously +happy. The world had been filled with a new magic, a wonderful, stately +beauty which he had perceived for the first time. For long hours he had +been wandering in another—a glamorous, primordial world. + +“I suppose,” he said to himself, “I have lived too intensely, I seem to +have had the stars and moon and everything else for guests, and now +they’ve gone my house is weak.” + +So he struggled to diagnose his case of splendour and sickness. He +reviewed his hour of passion with Helena. + +“Surely,” he told himself, “I have drunk life too hot, and it has hurt +my cup. My soul seems to leak out—I am half here, half gone away. +That’s why I understand the trees and the night so painfully.” + +Then he came to the hour of Helena’s strange ecstasy over him. That, +somehow, had filled him with passionate grief. It was happiness +concentrated one drop too keen, so that what should have been vivid +wine was like a pure poison scathing him. But his consciousness, which +had been unnaturally active, now was dulling. He felt the blood flowing +vigorously along the limbs again, and stilling has brain, sweeping away +his sickness, soothing him. + +“I suppose,” he said to himself for the last time, “I suppose living +too intensely kills you, more or less.” + +Then Siegmund forgot. He opened his eyes and saw the night about him. +The moon had escaped from the cloud-pack, and was radiant behind a fine +veil which glistened to her rays, and which was broidered with a +lustrous halo, very large indeed, the largest halo Siegmund had ever +seen. When the little lane turned full towards the moon, it seemed as +if Siegmund and Helena would walk through a large Moorish arch of +horse-shoe shape, the enormous white halo opening in front of them. +They walked on, keeping their faces to the moon, smiling with wonder +and a little rapture, until once mote the little lane curved wilfully, +and they were walking north. Helena observed three cottages crouching +under the hill and under trees to cover themselves from the magic of +the moonlight. + +“We certainly did not come this way before,” she said triumphantly. The +idea of being lost delighted her. + +Siegmund looked round at the grey hills smeared over with a low, dim +glisten of moon-mist. He could not yet fully realize that he was +walking along a lane in the Isle of Wight. His surroundings seemed to +belong to some state beyond ordinary experience—some place in romance, +perhaps, or among the hills where Brünhild lay sleeping in her large +bright halo of fire. How could it be that he and Helena were two +children of London wandering to find their lodging in Freshwater? He +sighed, and looked again over the hills where the moonlight was +condensing in mist ethereal, frail, and yet substantial, reminding him +of the way the manna must have condensed out of the white moonlit mists +of Arabian deserts. + +“We may be on the road to Newport,” said Helena presently, “and the +distance is ten miles.” + +She laughed, not caring in the least whither they wandered, exulting in +this wonderful excursion! She and Siegmund alone in a glistening +wilderness of night at the back of habited days and nights! Siegmund +looked at her. He by no means shared her exultation, though he +sympathized with it. He walked on alone in his deep seriousness, of +which she was not aware. Yet when he noticed her abandon, he drew her +nearer, and his heart softened with protecting tenderness towards her, +and grew heavy with responsibility. + +The fields breathed off a scent as if they were come to life with the +night, and were talking with fragrant eagerness. The farms huddled +together in sleep, and pulled the dark shadow over them to hide from +the supernatural white night; the cottages were locked and darkened. +Helena walked on in triumph through this wondrous hinterland of night, +actively searching for the spirits, watching the cottages they +approached, listening, looking for the dreams of those sleeping inside, +in the darkened rooms. She imagined she could see the frail dream-faces +at the windows; she fancied they stole out timidly into the gardens, +and went running away among the rabbits on the gleamy hill-side. Helena +laughed to herself, pleased with her fancy of wayward little dreams +playing with weak hands and feet among the large, solemn-sleeping +cattle. This was the first time, she told herself, that she had ever +been out among the grey-frocked dreams and white-armed fairies. She +imagined herself lying asleep in her room, while her own dreams slid +out down the moonbeams. She imagined Siegmund sleeping in his room, +while his dreams, dark-eyed, their blue eyes very dark and yearning at +night-time, came wandering over the grey grass seeking her dreams. + +So she wove her fancies as she walked, until for very weariness she was +fain to remember that it was a long way—a long way. Siegmund’s arm was +about her to support her; she rested herself upon it. They crossed a +stile and recognized, on the right of the path, the graveyard of the +Catholic chapel. The moon, which the days were paring smaller with +envious keen knife, shone upon the white stones in the burial-ground. +The carved Christ upon His cross hung against a silver-grey sky. Helena +looked up wearily, bowing to the tragedy. Siegmund also looked, and +bowed his head. + +“Thirty years of earnest love; three years’ life like a passionate +ecstasy-and it was finished. He was very great and very wonderful. I am +very insignificant, and shall go out ignobly. But we are the same; +love, the brief ecstasy, and the end. But mine is one rose, and His all +the white beauty in the world.” + +Siegmund felt his heart very heavy, sad, and at fault, in presence of +the Christ. Yet he derived comfort from the knowledge that life was +treating him in the same manner as it had treated the Master, though +his compared small and despicable with the Christ-tragedy. Siegmund +stepped softly into the shadow of the pine copse. + +“Let me get under cover,” he thought. “Let me hide in it; it is good, +the sudden intense darkness. I am small and futile: my small, futile +tragedy!” + +Helena shrank in the darkness. It was almost terrible to her, and the +silence was like a deep pit. She shrank to Siegmund. He drew her +closer, leaning over her as they walked, trying to assure her. His +heart was heavy, and heavy with a tenderness approaching grief, for his +small, brave Helena. + +“Are you sure this is the right way?” he whispered to her. + +“Quite, quite sure,” she whispered confidently in reply. And presently +they came out into the hazy moonlight, and began stumbling down the +steep hill. They were both very tired, both found it difficult to go +with ease or surety this sudden way down. Soon they were creeping +cautiously across the pasture and the poultry farm. Helena’s heart was +beating, as she imagined what a merry noise there would be should they +wake all the fowls. She dreaded any commotion, any questioning, this +night, so she stole carefully along till they issued on the high-road +not far from home. + + + + +XIII + + +In the morning, after bathing, Siegmund leaned upon the seawall in a +kind of reverie. It was late, towards nine o’clock, yet he lounged, +dreamily looking out on the turquoise blue water, and the white haze of +morning, and the small, fair shadows of ships slowly realizing before +him. In the bay were two battleships, uncouth monsters, lying as naïve +and curious as sea-lions strayed afar. + +Siegmund was gazing oversea in a half-stupid way, when he heard a voice +beside him say: + +“Where have they come from; do you know, sir?” + +He turned, saw a fair, slender man of some thirty-five years standing +beside him and smiling faintly at the battleships. + +“The men-of-war? There are a good many at Spithead,” said Siegmund. + +The other glanced negligently into his face. + +“They look rather incongruous, don’t you think? We left the sea empty +and shining, and when we come again, behold, these objects keeping +their eye on us!” + +Siegmund laughed. + +“You are not an Anarchist, I hope?” he said jestingly. + +“A Nihilist, perhaps,” laughed the other. “But I am quite fond of the +Czar, if pity is akin to love. No; but you can’t turn round without +finding some policeman or other at your elbow—look at them, abominable +ironmongery!—ready to put his hand on your shoulder.” + +The speaker’s grey-blue eyes, always laughing with mockery, glanced +from the battleships and lit on the dark blue eyes of Siegmund. The +latter felt his heart lift in a convulsive movement. This stranger ran +so quickly to a perturbing intimacy. + +“I suppose we are in the hands of—God,” something moved Siegmund to +say. The stranger contracted his eyes slightly as he gazed deep at the +speaker. + +“Ah!” he drawled curiously. Then his eyes wandered over the wet hair, +the white brow, and the bare throat of Siegmund, after which they +returned again to the eyes of his interlocutor. “Does the Czar sail +this way?” he asked at last. + +“I do not know,” replied Siegmund, who, troubled by the other’s +penetrating gaze, had not expected so trivial a question. + +“I suppose the newspaper will tell us?” said the man. + +Sure to,” said Siegmund. + +“You haven’t seen it this morning?” + +“Not since Saturday.” + +The swift blue eyes of the man dilated. He looked curiously at +Siegmund. + +“You are not alone on your holiday?” + +“No.” Siegmund did not like this—he gazed over the sea in displeasure. + +“I live here—at least for the present—name, Hampson—” + +“Why, weren’t you one of the first violins at the Savoy fifteen years +back?” asked Siegmund. + +They chatted awhile about music. They had known each other, had been +fairly intimate, and had since become strangers. Hampson excused +himself for having addressed Siegmund: + +“I saw you with your nose flattened against the window,” he said, “and +as I had mine in the same position too, I thought we were fit to be +re-acquainted.” + +Siegmund looked at the man in astonishment. + +“I only mean you were staring rather hard at nothing. It’s a pity to +try and stare out of a beautiful blue day like this, don’t you think?” + +“Stare beyond it, you mean?” asked Siegmund. + +“Exactly!” replied the other, with a laugh of intelligence. “I call a +day like this ‘the blue room’. It’s the least draughty apartment in all +the confoundedly draughty House of Life.” + +Siegmund looked at him very intently. This Hampson seemed to express +something in his own soul. + +“I mean,” the man explained, “that after all, the great mass of life +that washes unidentified, and that we call death, creeps through the +blue envelope of the day, and through our white tissue, and we can’t +stop it, once we’ve begun to leak.” + +“What do you mean by ‘leak’?” asked Siegmund. + +“Goodness knows—I talk through my hat. But once you’ve got a bit tired +of the house, you glue your nose to the windowpane, and stare for the +dark—as you were doing.” + +“But, to use your metaphor, I’m not tired of the House—if you mean +Life,” said Siegmund. + +“Praise God! I’ve met a poet who’s not afraid of having his pocket +picked—or his soul, or his brain!” said the stranger, throwing his head +back in a brilliant smile, his eyes dilated. + +“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” said Siegmund, very quietly, with a +strong fear and a fascination opposing each other in his heart. + +“You’re not tired of the House, but of your own particular room-say, +suite of rooms—” + +“Tomorrow I am turned out of this ‘blue room’,” said Siegmund with a +wry smile. The other looked at him seriously. + +“Dear Lord!” exclaimed Hampson; then: “Do you remember Flaubert’s +saint, who laid naked against a leper? I could _not_ do it.” + +“Nor I,” shuddered Siegmund. + +“But you’ve got to-or something near it!” + +Siegmund looked at the other with frightened, horrified eyes. + +“What of yourself?” he said, resentfully. + +“I’ve funked-ran away from my leper, and now am eating my heart out, +and staring from the window at the dark.” + +“But can’t you _do_ something?” said Siegmund. + +The other man laughed with amusement, throwing his head back and +showing his teeth. + +“I won’t ask you what _your_ intentions are,” he said, with delicate +irony in his tone. “You know, I am a tremendously busy man. I earn five +hundred a year by hard work; but it’s no good. If you have acquired a +liking for intensity in life, you can’t do without it. I mean vivid +soul experience. It takes the place, with us, of the old adventure, and +physical excitement.” + +Siegmund looked at the other man with baffled, anxious eyes. + +“Well, and what then?” he said. + +“What then? A craving for intense life is nearly as deadly as any other +craving. You become a _concentré_, you feed your normal flame with +oxygen, and it devours your tissue. The soulful ladies of romance are +always semi-transparent.” + +Siegmund laughed. + +“At least, I am quite opaque,” he said. + +The other glanced over his easy, mature figure and strong throat. + +“Not altogether,” said Hampson. “And you, I should think, are one whose +flame goes nearly out, when the stimulant is lacking.” + +Siegmund glanced again at him, startled. + +“You haven’t much reserve. You’re like a tree that’ll flower till it +kills itself,” the man continued. “You’ll run till you drop, and then +you won’t get up again. You’ve no dispassionate intellect to control +you and economize.” + +“You’re telling me very plainly what I am and am not,” said Siegmund, +laughing rather sarcastically. He did not like it. + +“Oh, it’s only what I think,” replied Hampson. “We’re a good deal +alike, you see, and have gone the same way. You married and I didn’t; +but women have always done as they liked with me.” + +“That’s hardly so in my case,” said Siegmund. + +Hampson eyed him critically. + +“Say one woman; it’s enough,” he replied. + +Siegmund gazed, musing, over the sea. + +“The best sort of women—the most interesting—are the worst for us,” +Hampson resumed. “By instinct they aim at suppressing the gross and +animal in us. Then they are supersensitive—refined a bit beyond +humanity. We, who are as little gross as need be, become their +instruments. Life is grounded in them, like electricity in the earth; +and we take from them their unrealized life, turn it into light or +warmth or power for them. The ordinary woman is, alone, a great +potential force, an accumulator, if you like, charged from the source +of life. In us her force becomes evident. + +“She can’t live without us, but she destroys us. These deep, +interesting women don’t want _us_; they want the flowers of the spirit +they can gather of us. We, as natural men, are more or less degrading +to them and to their love of us; therefore they destroy the natural man +in us—that is, us altogether.” + +“You’re a bit downright are you not?” asked Siegmund, deprecatingly. He +did not disagree with what his friend said, nor tell him such +statements were arbitrary. + +“That’s according to my intensity,” laughed Hampson. “I can open the +blue heaven with looking, and push back the doors of day a little, and +see—God knows what! One of these days I shall slip through. Oh, I am +perfectly sane; I only strive beyond myself!” + +“Don’t you think it’s wrong to get like it?” asked Siegmund. + +“Well, I do, and so does everybody; but the crowd profits by us in the +end. When they understand my music, it will be an education to them; +and the whole aim of mankind is to render life intelligible.” + +Siegmund pondered a little…. + +“You make me feel—as if I were loose, and a long way off from myself,” +he said slowly. + +The young man smiled, then looked down at the wall, where his own hands +lay white and fragile, showing the blue veins. + +“I can scarcely believe they are me,” he said. “If they rose up and +refused me, I should not be surprised. But aren’t they beautiful?” + +He looked, with a faint smile, at Siegmund. + +Siegmund glanced from the stranger’s to his own hands, which lay curved +on the sea-wall as if asleep. They were small for a man of his stature, +but, lying warm in the sun, they looked particularly secure in life. +Instinctively, with a wave of self-love, he closed his fists over his +thumbs. + +“I wonder,” said Hampson softly, with strange bitterness, “that she +can’t see it; I wonder she doesn’t cherish you. You are full and +beautiful enough in the flesh—why will she help to destroy you, when +she loved you to such extremity?” + +Siegmund looked at him with awe-stricken eyes. The frail, swift man, +with his intensely living eyes, laughed suddenly. + +“Fools—the fools, these women!” he said. “Either they smash their own +crystal, or it revolts, turns opaque, and leaps out of their hands. +Look at me, I am whittled down to the quick; but your neck is thick +with compressed life; it is a stem so tense with life that it will hold +up by itself. I am very sorry.” + +All at once he stopped. The bitter despair in his tone was the voice of +a heavy feeling of which Siegmund had been vaguely aware for some +weeks. Siegmund felt a sense of doom. He laughed, trying to shake it +off. + +“I wish I didn’t go on like this,” said Hampson piteously. “I wish I +could be normal. How hot it is already! You should wear a hat. It is +really hot.” He pulled open his flannel shirt. + +“I like the heat,” said Siegmund. + +“So do I.” + +Directly, the young man dashed the long hair on his forehead into some +sort of order, bowed, and smiling in his gay fashion, walked leisurely +to the village. + +Siegmund stood awhile as if stunned. It seemed to him only a painful +dream. Sighing deeply to relieve himself of the pain, he set off to +find Helena. + + + + +XIV + + +In the garden of tall rose trees and nasturtiums Helena was again +waiting. It was past nine o’clock, so she was growing impatient. To +herself, however, she professed a great interest in a little book of +verses she had bought in St Martin’s Lane for twopence. + +A late, harsh blackbird smote him with her wings, +As through the glade, dim in the dark, she flew…. + + +So she read. She made a curious, pleased sound, and remarked to herself +that she thought these verses very fine. But she watched the road for +Siegmund. + +And now she takes the scissors on her thumb … +Oh then, no more unto my lattice come. + + +“H’m!” she said, “I really don’t know whether I like that or not.” + +Therefore she read the piece again before she looked down the road. + +“He really is very late. It is absurd to think he may have got drowned; +but if he were washing about at the bottom of the sea, his hair loose +on the water!” + +Her heart stood still as she imagined this. + +“But what nonsense! I like these verses _very_ much. I will read them +as I walk along the side path, where I shall hear the bees, and catch +the flutter of a butterfly among the words. That will be a very fitting +way to read this poet.” + +So she strolled to the gate, glancing up now and again. There, sure +enough, was Siegmund coming, the towel hanging over his shoulder, his +throat bare, and his face bright. She stood in the mottled shade. + +“I have kept you waiting,” said Siegmund. + +“Well, I was reading, you see.” + +She would not admit her impatience. + +“I have been talking,” he said. + +“Talking!” she exclaimed in slight displeasure. “Have you found an +acquaintance even here?” + +“A fellow who was quite close friends in Savoy days; he made me feel +queer-sort of _Doppelgänger_, he was.” + +Helena glanced up swiftly and curiously. + +“In what way?” she said. + +“He talked all the skeletons in the cupboard-such piffle it seems, now! +The sea is like a harebell, and there are two battleships lying in the +bay. You can hear the voices of the men on deck distinctly. Well, have +you made the plans for today?” + +They went into the house to breakfast. She watched him helping himself +to the scarlet and green salad. + +“Mrs Curtiss,” she said, in rather reedy tone, “has been very motherly +to me this morning; oh, very motherly!” + +Siegmund, who was in a warm, gay mood, shrank up. + +“What, has she been saying something about last night?” he asked. + +“She was very much concerned for me-was afraid something dreadful had +happened,” continued Helena, in the same keen, sarcastic tone, which +showed she was trying to rid herself of her own mortification. + +“Because we weren’t in till about eleven?” said Siegmund, also with +sarcasm. + +“I mustn’t do it again. Oh no, I mustn’t do it again, really.” + +“For fear of alarming the old lady?” he asked. + +“‘You know, dear, it troubles _me_ a good deal … but if I were your +_mother_, I don’t know _how_ I should feel,’” she quoted. + +“When one engages rooms one doesn’t usually stipulate for a stepmother +to nourish one’s conscience,” said Siegmund. They laughed, making jest +of the affair; but they were both too thin-skinned. Siegmund writhed +within himself with mortification, while Helena talked as if her teeth +were on edge. + +“I don’t _mind_ in the least,” she said. “The poor old woman has her +opinions, and I mine.” + +Siegmund brooded a little. + +“I know I’m a moral coward,” he said bitterly. + +“Nonsense” she replied. Then, with a little heat: “But you _do_ +continue to try so hard to justify yourself, as if _you_ felt you +needed justification.” + +He laughed bitterly. + +“I tell you—a little thing like this—it remains tied tight round +something inside me, reminding me for hours—well, what everybody else’s +opinion of me is.” + +Helena laughed rather plaintively. + +“I thought you were so sure we were right,” she said. + +He winced again. + +“In myself I am. But in the eyes of the world—” + +“If you feel so in yourself, is not that enough?” she said brutally. + +He hung his head, and slowly turned his serviette-ring. + +“What is myself?” he asked. + +“Nothing very definite,” she said, with a bitter laugh. + +They were silent. After a while she rose, went lovingly over to him, +and put her arms round his neck. + +“This is our last clear day, dear,” she said. + +A wave of love came over him, sweeping away all the rest. He took her +in his arms…. + +“It will be hot today,” said Helena, as they prepared to go out. + +“I felt the sun steaming in my hair as I came up,” he replied. + +“I shall wear a hat—you had better do so too.” + +“No,” he said. “I told you I wanted a sun-soaking; now I think I shall +get one.” + +She did not urge or compel him. In these matters he was old enough to +choose for himself. + +This morning they were rather silent. Each felt the tarnish on their +remaining day. + +“I think, dear,” she said, “we ought to find the little path that +escaped us last night.” + +“We were lucky to miss it,” he answered. “You don’t get a walk like +that twice in a lifetime, in spite of the old ladies.” + +She glanced up at him with a winsome smile, glad to hear his words. + +They set off, Siegmund bare-headed. He was dressed in flannels and a +loose canvas shirt, but he looked what he was—a Londoner on holiday. He +had the appearance, the diffident bearing, and the well-cut clothes of +a gentleman. He had a slight stoop, a strong-shouldered stoop, and as +he walked he looked unseeing in front of him. + +Helena belonged to the unclassed. She was not ladylike, nor smart, nor +assertive. One could not tell whether she were of independent means or +a worker. One thing was obvious about her: she was evidently educated. + +Rather short, of strong figure, she was much more noticeably a +_concentrée_ than was Siegmund. Unless definitely looking at something +she always seemed coiled within herself. + +She wore a white voile dress made with the waist just below her +breasts, and the skirt dropping straight and clinging. On her head was +a large, simple hat of burnt straw. + +Through the open-worked sleeves of her dress she could feel the sun +bite vigorously. + +“I wish you had put on a hat, Siegmund,” she said. + +“Why?” he laughed. “My hair is like a hood,” He ruffled it back with +his hand. The sunlight glistened on his forehead. + +On the higher paths a fresh breeze was energetically chasing the +butterflies and driving the few small clouds disconsolate out of the +sky. The lovers stood for some time watching the people of the farm in +the down below dip their sheep on this sunny morning. There was a +ragged noise of bleating from the flock penned in a corner of the yard. +Two red-armed men seized a sheep, hauled it to a large bath that stood +in the middle of the yard, and there held it, more or less in the bath, +whilst a third man baled a dirty yellow liquid over its body. The white +legs of the sheep twinkled as it butted this way and that to escape the +yellow douche, the blue-shirted men ducked and struggled. There was a +faint splashing and shouting to be heard even from a distance. The +farmer’s wife and children stood by ready to rush in with assistance if +necessary. + +Helena laughed with pleasure. + +“That is really a very quaint and primitive proceeding,” she said. “It +is cruder than Theocritus.” + +“In an instant it makes me wish I were a farmer,” he laughed. “I think +every man has a passion for farming at the bottom of his blood. It +would be fine to be plain-minded, to see no farther than the end of +one’s nose, and to own cattle and land.” + +“Would it?” asked Helena sceptically. + +“If I had a red face, and went to sleep as soon as I sat comfortable, I +should love it,”he said. + +“It amuses me to hear you long to be stupid,” she replied. + +“To have a simple, slow-moving mind and an active life is the +desideratum.” + +“Is it?” she asked ironically. + +“I would give anything to be like that,” he said. + +“That is, not to be yourself,” she said pointedly. + +He laughed without much heartiness. + +“Don’t they seem a long way off?” he said, staring at the bucolic +scene. “They are farther than Theocritus—down there is farther than +Sicily, and more than twenty centuries from us. I wish it weren’t.” + +“Why do you?” she cried, with curious impatience. + +He laughed. + +Crossing the down, scattered with dark bushes, they came directly +opposite the path through the furze. + +“There it is!” she cried, “How could we miss it?” + +“Ascribe it to the fairies,” he replied, whistling the bird music out +of _Siegfried_, then pieces of _Tristan_. They talked very little. + +She was tired. When they arrived at a green, naked hollow near the +cliff’s edge, she said: + +“This shall be our house today.” + +“Welcome home!” said Siegmund. + +He flung himself down on the high, breezy slope of the dip, looking out +to sea. Helena sat beside him. It was absolutely still, and the wind +was slackening more and more. Though they listened attentively, they +could hear only an indistinct breathing sound, quite small, from the +water below: no clapping nor hoarse conversation of waves. Siegmund lay +with his hands beneath his head, looking over the sparkling sea. To put +her page in the shadow, Helena propped her book against him and began +to read. + +Presently the breeze, and Siegmund, dropped asleep. The sun was pouring +with dreadful persistence. It beat and beat on Helena, gradually +drawing her from her book in a confusion of thought. She closed her +eyes wearily, longing for shade. Vaguely she felt a sympathy with Adam +in “Adam Cast Forth”. Her mind traced again the tumultuous, obscure +strugglings of the two, forth from Eden through the primitive +wildernesses, and she felt sorrowful. Thinking of Adam blackened with +struggle, she looked down at Siegmund. The sun was beating him upon the +face and upon his glistening brow. His two hands, which lay out on the +grass, were full of blood, the veins of his wrists purple and swollen +with heat. Yet he slept on, breathing with a slight, panting motion. +Helena felt deeply moved. She wanted to kiss him as he lay helpless, +abandoned to the charge of the earth and the sky. She wanted to kiss +him, and shed a few tears. She did neither, but instead, moved her +position so that she shaded his head. Cautiously putting her hand on +his hair, she found it warm, quite hot, as when you put your hand under +a sitting hen, and feel the hot-feathered bosom. + +“It will make him ill,” she whispered to herself, and she bent over to +smell the hot hair. She noticed where the sun was scalding his +forehead. She felt very pitiful and helpless when she saw his brow +becoming inflamed with the sun-scalding. + +Turning weariedly away, she sought relief in the landscape. But the sea +was glittering unbearably, like a scaled dragon wreathing. The houses +of Freshwater slept, as cattle sleep motionless in the hollow valley. +Green Farringford on the slope, was drawn over with a shadow of heat +and sleep. In the bay below the hill the sea was hot and restless. +Helena was sick with sunshine and the restless glitter of water. + +“‘And there shall be no more sea,’” she quoted to herself, she knew not +wherefrom. + +“No more sea, no more anything,” she thought dazedly, as she sat in the +midst of this fierce welter of sunshine. It seemed to her as if all the +lightness of her fancy and her hope were being burned away in this +tremendous furnace, leaving her, Helena, like a heavy piece of slag +seamed with metal. She tried to imagine herself resuming the old +activities, the old manner of living. + +“It is impossible,” she said; “it is impossible! What shall I be when I +come out of this? I shall not come out, except as metal to be cast in +another shape. No more the same Siegmund, no more the same life. What +will become of us—what will happen?” + +She was roused from these semi-delirious speculations in the sun +furnace by Siegmund’s waking. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, +and looked smiling at Helena. + +“It is worth while to sleep,” said he, “for the sake of waking like +this. I was dreaming of huge ice-crystals.” + +She smiled at him. He seemed unconscious of fate, happy and strong. She +smiled upon him almost in condescension. + +“I should like to realize your dream,” she said. “This is terrible!” + +They went to the cliff’s edge, to receive the cool up-flow of air from +the water. She drank the travelling freshness eagerly with her face, +and put forward her sunburnt arms to be refreshed. + +“It is really a very fine sun,” said Siegmund lightly. “I feel as if I +were almost satisfied with heat.” + +Helena felt the chagrin of one whose wretchedness must go unperceived, +while she affects a light interest in another’s pleasure. This time, +when Siegmund “failed to follow her”, as she put it, she felt she must +follow him. + +“You are having your satisfaction complete this journey,” she said, +smiling; “even a sufficiency of me.” + +“Ay!” said Siegmund drowsily. “I think I am. I think this is about +perfect, don’t you?” + +She laughed. + +“I want nothing more and nothing different,” he continued; “and that’s +the extreme of a decent time, I should think.” + +“The extreme of a decent time!” she repeated. + +But he drawled on lazily: + +“I’ve only rubbed my bread on the cheese-board until now. Now I’ve got +all the cheese—which is you, my dear.” + +“I certainly feel eaten up,” she laughed, rather bitterly. She saw him +lying in a royal ease, his eyes naïve as a boy’s, his whole being +careless. Although very glad to see him thus happy, for herself she +felt very lonely. Being listless with sun-weariness, and heavy with a +sense of impending fate, she felt a great yearning for his sympathy, +his fellow-suffering. Instead of receiving this, she had to play to his +buoyant happiness, so as not to shrivel one petal of his flower, or +spoil one minute of his consummate hour. + +From the high point of the cliff where they stood, they could see the +path winding down to the beach, and broadening upwards towards them. +Slowly approaching up the slight incline came a black invalid’s chair, +wheeling silently over the short dry grass. The invalid, a young man, +was so much deformed that already his soul seemed to be wilting in his +pale sharp face, as if there were not enough life-flow in the distorted +body to develop the fair bud of the spirit. He turned his pain-sunken +eyes towards the sea, whose meaning, like that of all things, was half +obscure to him. Siegmund glanced, and glanced quickly away, before he +should see. Helena looked intently for two seconds. She thought of the +torn, shrivelled seaweed flung above the reach of the tide—“the life +tide,” she said to herself. The pain of the invalid overshadowed her +own distress. She was fretted to her soul. + +“Come!” she said quietly to Siegmund, no longer resenting the +completeness of his happiness, which left her unnecessary to him. + +“We will leave the poor invalid in possession of our green hollow—so +quiet,” she said to herself. + +They sauntered downwards towards the bay. Helena was brooding on her +own state, after her own fashion. + +“The Mist Spirit,” she said to herself. “The Mist Spirit draws a +curtain round us—it is very kind. A heavy gold curtain sometimes; a +thin, torn curtain sometimes. I want the Mist Spirit to close the +curtain again, I do not want to think of the outside. I am afraid of +the outside, and I am afraid when the curtain tears open in rags. I +want to be in our own fine world inside the heavy gold mist-curtain.” + +As if in answer or in protest to her thoughts, Siegmund said: + +“Do you want anything better than this, dear? Shall we come here next +year, and stay for a whole month?” + +“If there be any next year,” said she. + +Siegmund did not reply. + +She wondered if he had really spoken in sincerity, or if he, too, were +mocking fate. They walked slowly through the broiling sun towards their +lodging. + +“There will be an end to this,” said Helena, communing with herself. +“And when we come out of the mist-curtain, what will it be? No +matter—let come what will. All along Fate has been resolving, from the +very beginning, resolving obvious discords, gradually, by unfamiliar +progression; and out of original combinations weaving wondrous +harmonies with our lives. Really, the working out has been wondrous, is +wondrous now. The Master-Fate is too great an artist to suffer an +anti-climax. I am sure the Master-Musician is too great an artist to +allow a bathetic anti-climax.” + + + + +XV + + +The afternoon of the blazing day passed drowsily. Lying close together +on the beach, Siegmund and Helena let the day exhale its hours like +perfume, unperceived. Siegmund slept, a light evanescent sleep irised +with dreams and with suffering: nothing definite, the colour of dreams +without shape. Helena, as usual, retained her consciousness much more +clearly. She watched the far-off floating of ships, and the near wading +of children through the surf. Endless trains of thoughts, like little +waves, rippled forward and broke on the shore of her drowsiness. But +each thought-ripple, though it ran lightly, was tinged with +copper-coloured gleams as from a lurid sunset. Helena felt that the sun +was setting on her and Siegmund. The hour was too composed, +spell-bound, for grief or anxiety or even for close perception. She was +merely aware that the sun was wheeling down, tangling Siegmund and her +in the traces, like overthrown charioteers. So the hours passed. + +After tea they went eastwards on the downs. Siegmund was animated, so +that Helena caught his mood. It was very rare that they spoke of the +time preceding their acquaintance, Helena knew little or nothing of +Siegmund’s life up to the age of thirty, whilst he had never learned +anything concerning her childhood. Somehow she did not encourage him to +self-discovery. Today, however, the painful need of lovers for +self-revelation took hold on him. + +“It is awfully funny,” he said. “I was _so_ gone on Beatrice when I +married her. She had only just come back from Egypt. Her father was an +army officer, a very handsome man, and, I believe, a bit of a rake. +Beatrice is really well connected, you know. But old FitzHerbert ran +through all his money, and through everything else. He was too hot for +the rest of the family, so they dropped him altogether. + +“He came to live at Peckham when I was sixteen. I had just left school, +and was to go into father’s business. Mrs FitzHerbert left cards, and +very soon we were acquainted. Beatrice had been a good time in a French +convent school. She had only knocked about with the army a little +while, but it had brought her out. I remember I thought she was miles +above me—which she was. She wasn’t bad-looking, either, and you know +men all like her. I bet she’d marry again, in spite of the children. + +“At first I fluttered round her. I remember I’d got a little, silky +moustache. They all said I looked older than sixteen. At that time I +was mad on the violin, and she played rather well. Then FitzHerbert +went off abroad somewhere, so Beatrice and her mother half lived at our +house. The mother was an invalid. + +“I remember I nearly stood on my head one day. The conservatory opened +off the smoking-room, so when I came in the room, I heard my two +sisters and Beatrice talking about good-looking men. + +“‘I consider Bertram will make a handsome man,’ said my younger sister. + +“‘He’s got beautiful eyes,’ said my other sister. + +“‘And a real darling nose and chin!’ cried Beatrice. ‘If only he was +more _solide_! He is like a windmill, all limbs.’ + +“‘He will fill out. Remember, he’s not quite seventeen,’ said my elder +sister. + +“‘Ah, he is _doux_—he is _câlin_,’ said Beatrice. + +“‘I think he is rather _too_ spoony for his age,’ said my elder sister. + +“‘But he’s a fine boy for all that. See how thick his knees are,’ my +younger sister chimed in. + +“‘Ah, _si, si_!’ cried Beatrice. + +“I made a row against the door, then walked across. + +“‘Hello, is somebody in here?’ I said, as I pushed into the little +conservatory. + +“I looked straight at Beatrice, and she at me. We seemed to have formed +an alliance in that look: she was the other half of my consciousness, I +of hers. Ha! Ha! there were a lot of white narcissus, and little white +hyacinths, Roman hyacinths, in the conservatory. I can see them now, +great white stars, and tangles of little ones, among a bank of green; +and I can recall the keen, fresh scent on the warm air; and the look of +Beatrice … her great dark eyes. + +“It’s funny, but Beatrice is as dead—ay, far more dead—than Dante’s. +And I am not that young fool, not a bit. + +“I was very romantic, fearfully emotional, and the soul of honour. +Beatrice said nobody cared a thing about her. FitzHerbert was always +jaunting off, the mother was a fretful invalid. So I was seventeen, +earning half a guinea a week, and she was eighteen, with no money, when +we ran away to Brighton and got married. Poor old Pater, he took it +awfully well, I have been a frightful drag on him, you know. + +“There’s the romance. I wonder how it will all end.” + +Helena laughed, and he did not detect her extreme bitterness of spirit. + +They walked on in silence for some time. He was thinking back, before +Helena’s day. This left her very much alone, and forced on her the idea +that, after all, love, which she chose to consider as single and +wonderful a thing in a man’s life as birth, or adolescence, or death, +was temporary, and formed only an episode. It was her hour of +disillusion. + +“Come to think of it,” Siegmund continued, “I have always shirked. +Whenever I’ve been in a tight corner I’ve gone to Pater.” + +“I think,” she said, “marriage has been a tight corner you couldn’t get +out of to go to anybody.” + +“Yet I’m here,” he answered simply. + +The blood suffused her face and neck. + +“And some men would have made a better job of it. When it’s come to +sticking out against Beatrice, and sailing the domestic ship in spite +of her, I’ve always funked. I tell you I’m something of a moral +coward.” + +He had her so much on edge she was inclined to answer, “So be it.” +Instead, she ran back over her own history: it consisted of petty +discords in contemptible surroundings, then of her dreams and fancies, +finally—Siegmund. + +“In my life,” she said, with the fine, grating discord in her tones, “I +might say _always_, the real life has seemed just outside—brownies +running and fairies peeping—just beyond the common, ugly place where I +am. I seem to have been hedged in by vulgar circumstances, able to +glimpse outside now and then, and see the reality.” + +“You are so hard to get at,” said Siegmund. “And so scornful of +familiar things.” + +She smiled, knowing he did not understand. The heat had jaded her, so +that physically she was full of discord, of dreariness that set her +teeth on edge. Body and soul, she was out of tune. + +A warm, noiseless twilight was gathering over the downs and rising +darkly from the sea. Fate, with wide wings, was hovering just over her. +Fate, ashen grey and black, like a carrion crow, had her in its shadow. +Yet Siegmund took no notice. He did not understand. He walked beside +her whistling to himself, which only distressed her the more. + +They were alone on the smooth hills to the east. Helena looked at the +day melting out of the sky, leaving the permanent structure of the +night. It was her turn to suffer the sickening detachment which comes +after moments of intense living. + +The rosiness died out of the sunset as embers fade into thick ash. In +herself, too, the ruddy glow sank and went out. The earth was a cold +dead heap, coloured drearily, the sky was dark with flocculent grey +ash, and she herself an upright mass of soft ash. + +She shuddered slightly with horror. The whole face of things was to her +livid and ghastly. Being a moralist rather than an artist, coming of +fervent Wesleyan stock, she began to scourge herself. She had done +wrong again. Looking back, no one had she touched without hurting. She +had a destructive force; anyone she embraced she injured. Faint voices +echoed back from her conscience. The shadows were full of complaint +against her. It was all true, she was a harmful force, dragging Fate to +petty, mean conclusions. + +Life and hope were ash in her mouth. She shuddered with discord. +Despair grated between her teeth. This dreariness was worse than any +her dreary, lonely life had known. She felt she could bear it no +longer. + +Siegmund was there. Surely he could help? He would rekindle her. But he +was straying ahead, carelessly whistling the Spring Song from _Die +Walküre_. She looked at him, and again shuddered with horror. Was that +really Siegmund, that stooping, thick-shouldered, indifferent man? Was +that the Siegmund who had seemed to radiate joy into his surroundings, +the Siegmund whose coming had always changed the whole weather of her +soul? Was that the Siegmund whose touch was keen with bliss for her, +whose face was a panorama of passing God? She looked at him again. His +radiance was gone, his aura had ceased. She saw him a stooping man, +past the buoyancy of youth, walking and whistling rather stupidly—in +short, something of the “clothed animal on end”, like the rest of men. + +She suffered an agony of disillusion. Was this the real Siegmund, and +her own only a projection of her soul? She took her breath sharply. Was +he the real clay, and that other, her beloved, only the breathing of +her soul upon this. There was an awful blank before her. + +“Siegmund!” she said in despair. + +He turned sharply at the sound of her voice. Seeing her face pale and +distorted in the twilight, he was filled with dismay. She mutely lifted +her arms to him, watching him in despair. Swiftly he took her in his +arms, and asked in a troubled voice: + +“What is it, dear? Is something wrong?” + +His voice was nothing to her—it was stupid. She felt his arms round +her, felt her face pressed against the cloth of his coat, against the +beating of his heart. What was all this? This was not comfort or love. +He was not understanding or helping, only chaining her, hurting. She +did not want his brute embrace—she was most utterly alone, gripped so +in his arms. If he could not save her from herself, he must leave her +free to pant her heart out in free air. The secret thud, thud of his +heart, the very self of that animal in him she feared and hated, +repulsed her. She struggled to escape. + +“What is it? Won’t you tell me what is the matter?” he pleaded. + +She began to sob, dry wild sobs, feeling as if she would go mad. He +tried to look at her face, for which she hated him. And all the time he +held her fast, all the time she was imprisoned in the embrace of this +brute, blind creature, whose heart confessed itself in thud, thud, +thud. + +“Have you heard anything against us? Have I done anything? Have I said +anything? Tell me—at any rate tell me, Helena.” + +Her sobbing was like the chattering of dry leaves. She grew frantic to +be free. Stifled in that prison any longer, she would choke and go mad. +His coat chafed her face; as she struggled she could see the strong +working of his throat. She fought against him; she struggled in panic +to be free. + +“Let me go!” she cried. “Let me go! Let me go!” He held her in +bewilderment and terror. She thrust her hands in his chest and pushed +him apart. Her face, blind to him, was very much distorted by her +suffering. She thrust him furiously away with great strength. + +His heart stood still with wonder. She broke from him and dropped down, +sobbing wildly, in the shelter of the tumuli. She was bunched in a +small, shaken heap. Siegmund could not bear it. He went on one knee +beside her, trying to take her hand in his, and pleading: + +“Only tell me, Helena, what it is. Tell me what it is. At least tell +me, Helena; tell me what it is. Oh, but this is dreadful!” + +She had turned convulsively from him. She shook herself, as if beside +herself, and at last covered her ears with her hands, to shut out this +unreasoning pleading of his voice. + +Seeing her like this, Siegmund at last gave in. Quite still, he knelt +on one knee beside her, staring at the late twilight. The intense +silence was crackling with the sound of Helena’s dry, hissing sobs. He +remained silenced, stunned by the unnatural conflict. After waiting a +while, he put his hand on her. She winced convulsively away. + +Then he rose, saying in his heart, “It is enough,” He went behind the +small hill, and looked at the night. It was all exposed. He wanted to +hide, to cover himself from the openness, and there was not even a bush +under which he could find cover. + +He lay down flat on the ground, pressing his face into the wiry turf, +trying to hide. Quite stunned, with a death taking place in his soul, +he lay still, pressed against the earth. He held his breath for a long +time before letting it go, then again he held it. He could scarcely +bear, even by breathing, to betray himself. His consciousness was dark. + +Helena had sobbed and struggled the life animation back into herself. +At length, weary but comfortable, she lay still to rest. Almost she +could have gone to sleep. But she grew chilly, and a ground insect +tickled her face. Was somebody coming? + +It was dark when she rose. Siegmund was not in sight. She tidied +herself, and rather frightened, went to look for him. She saw him like +a thick shadow on the earth. Now she was heavy with tears good to shed. +She stood in silent sorrow, looking at him. + +Suddenly she became aware of someone passing and looking curiously at +them. + +“Dear!” she said softly, stooping and touching his hair. He began to +struggle with himself to respond. At that minute he would rather have +died than face anyone. His soul was too much uncovered. + +“Dear, someone is looking,” she pleaded. + +He drew himself up from cover. But he kept his face averted. They +walked on. + +“Forgive me, dear,” she said softly. + +“Nay, it’s not you,” he answered, and she was silenced. They walked on +till the night seemed private. She turned to him, and “Siegmund!” she +said, in a voice of great sorrow and pleading. + +He took her in his arms, but did not kiss her, though she lifted her +face. He put his mouth against her throat, below the ear, as she +offered it, and stood looking out through the ravel of her hair, dazed, +dreamy. + +The sea was smoking with darkness under half-luminous heavens. The +stars, one after another, were catching alight. Siegmund perceived +first one, and then another dimmer one, flicker out in the darkness +over the sea. He stood perfectly still, watching them. Gradually he +remembered how, in the cathedral, the tapers of the choir-stalls would +tremble and set steadily to burn, opening the darkness point after +point with yellow drops of flame, as the acolyte touched them, one by +one, delicately with his rod. The night was religious, then, with its +proper order of worship. Day and night had their ritual, and passed in +uncouth worship. + +Siegmund found himself in an abbey. He looked up the nave of the night, +where the sky came down on the sea-like arches, and he watched the +stars catch fire. At least it was all sacred, whatever the God might +be. Helena herself, the bitter bread, was stuff of the ceremony, which +he touched with his lips as part of the service. + +He had Helena in his arms, which was sweet company, but in spirit he +was quite alone. She would have drawn him back to her, and on her +woman’s breast have hidden him from Fate, and saved him from searching +the unknown. But this night he did not want comfort. If he were “an +infant crying in the night”, it was crying that a woman could not +still. He was abroad seeking courage and faith for his own soul. He, in +loneliness, must search the night for faith. + +“My fate is finely wrought out,” he thought to himself. “Even damnation +may be finely imagined for me in the night. I have come so far. Now I +must get clarity and courage to follow out the theme. I don’t want to +botch and bungle even damnation.” + +But he needed to know what was right, what was the proper sequence of +his acts. Staring at the darkness, he seemed to feel his course, though +he could not see it. He bowed in obedience. The stars seemed to swing +softly in token of submission. + + + + +XVI + + +Feeling him abstract, withdrawn from her, Helena experienced the dread +of losing him. She was in his arms, but his spirit ignored her. That +was insufferable to her pride. Yet she dared not disturb him—she was +afraid. Bitterly she repented her of the giving way to her revulsion a +little space before. Why had she not smothered it and pretended? Why +had she, a woman, betrayed herself so flagrantly? Now perhaps she had +lost him for good. She was consumed with uneasiness. + +At last she drew back from him, held him her mouth to kiss. As he +gently, sadly kissed her she pressed him to her bosom. She must get him +back, whatever else she lost. She put her hand tenderly on his brow. + +“What are you thinking of?” she asked. + +“I?” he replied. “I really don’t know. I suppose I was hardly thinking +anything.” + +She waited a while, clinging to him, then, finding some difficulty in +speech, she asked: + +“Was I very cruel, dear?” + +It was so unusual to hear her grieved and filled with humility that he +drew her close into him. + +“It was pretty bad, I suppose,” he replied. “But I should think neither +of us could help it.” + +She gave a little sob, pressed her face into his chest, wishing she had +helped it. Then, with Madonna love, she clasped his head upon her +shoulder, covering her hands over his hair. Twice she kissed him softly +in the nape of the neck, with fond, reassuring kisses. All the while, +delicately, she fondled and soothed him, till he was child to her +Madonna. + +They remained standing with his head on her shoulder for some time, +till at last he raised himself to lay his lips on hers in a long kiss +of healing and renewal—long, pale kisses of after-suffering. + +Someone was coming along the path. Helena let him go, shook herself +free, turned sharply aside, and said: + +“Shall we go down to the water?” + +“If you like,” he replied, putting out his hand to her. They went thus +with clasped hands down the cliff path to the beach. + +There they sat in the shadow of the uprising island, facing the +restless water. Around them the sand and shingle were grey; there +stretched a long pale line of surf, beyond which the sea was black and +smeared with star-reflections. The deep, velvety sky shone with +lustrous stars. + +As yet the moon was not risen. Helena proposed that they should lie on +a tuft of sand in a black cleft of the cliff to await its coming. They +lay close together without speaking. Each was looking at a low, large +star which hung straight in front of them, dripping its brilliance in a +thin streamlet of light along the sea almost to their feet. It was a +star-path fine and clear, trembling in its brilliance, but certain upon +the water. Helena watched it with delight. As Siegmund looked at the +star, it seemed to him a lantern hung at the gate to light someone +home. He imagined himself following the thread of the star-track. What +was behind the gate? + +They heard the wash of a steamer crossing the bay. The water seemed +populous in the night-time, with dark, uncanny comings and goings. + +Siegmund was considering. + +“What _was_ the matter with you?” he asked. + +She leaned over him, took his head in her lap, holding his face between +her two hands as she answered in a low, grave voice, very wise and old +in experience: + +“Why, you see, dear, you won’t understand. But there was such a greyish +darkness, and through it—the crying of lives I have touched….” + +His heart suddenly shrank and sank down. She acknowledged then that she +also had helped to injure Beatrice and his children. He coiled with +shame. + +“….A crying of lives against me, and I couldn’t silence them, nor +escape out of the darkness. I wanted you—I saw you in front, whistling +the Spring Song, but I couldn’t find you—it was not you—I couldn’t find +you.” + +She kissed his eyes and his brows. + +“No, I don’t see it,” he said. “You would always be you. I could think +of hating you, but you’d still be yourself.” + +She made a moaning, loving sound. Full of passionate pity, she moved +her mouth on his face, as a woman does on her child that has hurt +itself. + +“Sometimes,” she murmured, in a low, grieved confession, “you lose me.” + +He gave a brief laugh. + +“I lose you!” he repeated. “You mean I lose my attraction for you, or +my hold over you, and then you—?” + +He did not finish. She made the same grievous murmuring noise over him. + +“It shall not be any more,” she said. + +“All right,” he replied, “since you decide it.” + +She clasped him round the chest and fondled him, distracted with pity. + +“You mustn’t be bitter,” she murmured. + +“Four days is enough,” he said. “In a fortnight I should be intolerable +to you. I am not masterful.” + +“It is not so, Siegmund,” she said sharply. + +“I give way always,” he repeated. “And then—tonight!” + +“Tonight, tonight!” she cried in wrath. “Tonight I have been a fool!” + +“And I?” he asked. + +“You—what of you?” she cried. Then she became sad. “I have little +perverse feelings,” she lamented. + +“And I can’t bear to compel anything, for fear of hurting it. So I’m +always pushed this way and that, like a fool.” + +“You don’t know how you hurt me, talking so,” she said. + +He kissed her. After a moment he said: + +“You are not like other folk. ‘_Ihr Lascheks seid ein anderes +Geschlecht_.’ I thought of you when we read it.” + +“Would you rather have me more like the rest, or more unlike, Siegmund? +Which is it?” + +“Neither,” he said. “You are _you_.” + +They were quiet for a space. The only movement in the night was the +faint gambolling of starlight on the water. The last person had passed +in black silhouette between them and the sea. + +He was thinking bitterly. She seemed to goad him deeper and deeper into +life. He had a sense of despair, a preference of death. The German she +read with him—she loved its loose and violent romance—came back to his +mind: “_Der Tod geht einem zur Seite, fast sichtbarlich, und jagt einem +immer tiefer ins Leben._” + +Well, the next place he would be hunted to, like a hare run down, was +home. It seemed impossible the morrow would take him back to Beatrice. + +“This time tomorrow night,” he said. + +“Siegmund!” she implored. + +“Why not?” he laughed. + +“Don’t, dear,” she pleaded. + +“All right, I won’t.” + +Some large steamer crossing the mouth of the bay made the water dash a +little as it broke in accentuated waves. A warm puff of air wandered in +on them now and again. + +“You won’t be tired when you go back?” Helena asked. + +“Tired!” he echoed. + +“You know how you were when you came,” she reminded him, in tones full +of pity. He laughed. + +“Oh, that is gone,” he said. + +With a slow, mechanical rhythm she stroked his cheek. + +“And will you be sad?” she said, hesitating. + +“Sad!” he repeated. + +“But will you be able to fake the old life up, happier, when you go +back?” + +“The old life will take me up, I suppose,” he said. + +There was a pause. + +“I think, dear,” she said, “I have done wrong.” + +“Good Lord—you have not!” he replied sharply, pressing back his head to +look at her, for the first time. + +“I shall have to send you back to Beatrice and the babies—tomorrow—as +you are now….” + +“‘Take no thought for the morrow.’ Be quiet, Helena!” he exclaimed as +the reality bit him. He sat up suddenly. + +“Why?” she asked, afraid. + +“Why!” he repeated. He remained sitting, leaning forward on the sand, +staring intently at Helena. She looked back in fear at him. The moment +terrified her, and she lost courage. + +With a fluttered motion she put her hand on his, which was pressed hard +on the sand as he leaned forward. At once he relaxed his intensity, +laughed, then became tender. + +Helena yielded herself like a forlorn child to his arms, and there lay, +half crying, while he smoothed her brow with his fingers, and grains of +sand fell from his palm on her cheek. She shook with dry, withered +sobs, as a child does when it snatches itself away from the lancet of +the doctor and hides in the mother’s bosom, refusing to be touched. + +But she knew the morrow was coming, whether or not, and she cowered +down on his breast. She was wild with fear of the parting and the +subsequent days. They must drink, after tomorrow, separate cups. She +was filled with vague terror of what it would be. The sense of the +oneness and unity of their fates was gone. + +Siegmund also was cowed by the threat of separation. He had more +definite knowledge of the next move than had Helena. His heart was +certain of calamity, which would overtake him directly. He shrank away. +Wildly he beat about to find a means of escape from the next day and +its consequences. He did not want to go. Anything rather than go back. + +In the midst of their passion of fear the moon rose. Siegmund started +to see the rim appear ruddily beyond the sea. His struggling suddenly +ceased, and he watched, spellbound, the oval horn of fiery gold come +up, resolve itself. Some golden liquor dripped and spilled upon the far +waves, where it shook in ruddy splashes. The gold-red cup rose higher, +looming before him very large, yet still not all discovered. By degrees +the horn of gold detached itself from the darkness at back of the +waves. It was immense and terrible. When would the tip be placed upon +the table of the sea? + +It stood at last, whole and calm, before him; then the night took up +this drinking-cup of fiery gold, lifting it with majestic movement +overhead, letting stream forth the wonderful unwasted liquor of gold +over the sea—a libation. + +Siegmund looked at the shaking flood of gold and paling gold spread +wider as the night upraised the blanching crystal, poured out farther +and farther the immense libation from the whitening cup, till at last +the moon looked frail and empty. + +And there, exhaustless in the night, the white light shook on the floor +of the sea. He wondered how it would be gathered up. “I gather it up +into myself,” he said. And the stars and the cliffs and a few trees +were watching, too. “If I have spilled my life,” he thought, “the +unfamiliar eyes of the land and sky will gather it up again.” + +Turning to Helena, he found her face white and shining as the empty +moon. + + + + +XVII + + +Towards morning, Siegmund went to sleep. For four hours, until seven +o’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 of +the window, and the lumining green sunshine coming through the lifted +hands of the leaves, challenged him into the open. + +The morning was exceedingly fair, and it looked at him so gently that +his blue eyes trembled with self-pity. A fragment of scarlet geranium +glanced up at him as he passed, so that amid the vermilion tyranny of +the 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 the +brass helmet of a soldier, and is startled. Everything looked at him +with the same eyes of tenderness, offering him, timidly, a little love. + +“They are all extraordinarily sweet,” said Siegmund to the full-mouthed +scabious and the awkward, downcast ragwort. Three or four butterflies +fluttered 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 bravely +dressed, rustling forward with a silken sound and much silken shining +to meet him. The battleships had gone; the sea was blue with a _panier_ +of diamonds; the sky was full with a misty tenderness like love. +Siegmund had never recognized before the affection that existed between +him and everything. We do not realize how tremendously dear and +indispensable to us are the hosts of common things, till we must leave +them, and we break our 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 last +night’s experience, smiled always with the pride of love. He undressed +by his usual altar-stone. + +“How closely familiar everything is,” he thought. “It seems almost as +if the curves of this stone were rounded to fit in my soul.” + +He touched the smooth white slope of the stone gently with discovering +fingers, in the same way as he touched the cheek of Helena, or of his +own babies. He found great pleasure in this feeling of intimacy with +things. A very soft wind, shy as a girl, put his arms round him, and +seemed to lay its cheek against his chest. He placed his hands beneath +his arms, where the wind was caressing him, and his eyes opened with +wondering pleasure. + +“They find no fault with me,” he said. “I suppose they are as fallible +as I, and so don’t judge,” he added, as he waded thigh-deep into the +water, thrusting it to hear the mock-angry remonstrance. + +“Once more,” he said, and he took the sea in his arms. He swam very +quietly. The water buoyed him up, holding him closely clasped. He swam +towards the white rocks of the headlands; they rose before him like +beautiful buttressed gates, so glistening that he half expected to see +fantail pigeons puffing like white irises in the niches, and white +peacocks with dark green feet stepping down the terraces, trailing a +sheen of silver. + +“Helena is right,” he said to himself as he swam, scarcely swimming, +but moving upon the bosom of the tide; “she is right, it is all +enchanted. I have 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 +the terraces, whose pale shadows through the swift-spinning emerald +facets of the water seemed merest fancy. Siegmund touched them with his +foot; they were hard, cold, dangerous. He swam carefully. As he made +for the archway, the shadows of the headland chilled the water. There +under water, clamouring in a throng at the base of the submerged walls, +were sea-women with dark locks, and young sea-girls, with soft hair, +vividly green, striving to climb up out of the darkness into the +morning, their hair swirling in abandon. Siegmund was half afraid of +their frantic 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-fleshed walls of the archway were dappled with green lights that +danced in and out among themselves. Siegmund was carried along in an +invisible chariot, beneath the jewel-stained walls. The tide swerved, +threw him as he 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 the joy and magic. He could not believe that the lovely, +smooth side of the rock, fair as his own side with its ripple of +muscles, could have hurt him thus. He let the water carry him till he +might climb out on to the shingle. There he sat upon a warm boulder, +and twisted to look at his arm. The skin was grazed, not very badly, +merely a ragged scarlet patch no 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 +hurt me. I suppose I was careless.” + +Nevertheless, the aspect of the morning changed. He sat on the boulder +looking out on the sea. The azure sky and the sea laughed on, holding a +bright conversation one with another. The two headlands of the tiny bay +gossiped across the street of water. All the boulders and pebbles of +the sea-shore played together. + +“Surely,” said Siegmund, “they take no notice of me; they do not care a +jot 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 on +the cliffs. + +“I was mistaken,” he said. “It was an illusion.” + +He looked wistfully out again. Like neighbours leaning from opposite +windows of an overhanging street, the headlands were occupied one with +another. White rocks strayed out to sea, followed closely by other +white rocks. Everything was busy, interested, occupied with its own +pursuit and with its own comrades. Siegmund alone was without pursuit +or 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 do I +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 his +maturity. He was very beautiful to himself. + +“Nothing, in the place where I am,” he said. “Gone, like a puff of +steam that melts on the sunshine.” + +Again Siegmund looked at the sea. It was glittering with laughter as at +a joke. + +“And I,” he said, lying down in the warm sand, “I am nothing. I do not +count; I am inconsiderable.” + +He set his teeth with pain. There were no tears, there was no relief. A +convulsive gasping shook him as he lay on the sands. All the while he +was 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,” to +answer him. It seemed an ignominy to be dead. It meant, to be +overlooked, even by the smallest creature of God’s earth. Surely that +was a great ignominy. + +Helena, meanwhile, was bathing, for the last time, by the same +sea-shore with him. She was no swimmer. Her endless delight was to +explore, to discover small treasures. For her the world was still a +great wonder-box which hid innumerable sweet toys for surprises in all +its crevices. She had bathed in many rock-pools’ tepid baths, trying +first one, then another. She had lain on the sand where the cold arms +of the ocean lifted 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 it +flung over her filled her with the same uncontrollable terror as did +Siegmund when he sometimes grew silent and strange in a tide of +passion. + +She wandered back to her rock-pools; they were bright and docile; they +did not fling her about in a game of terror. She bent over watching the +anemone’s fleshy petals shrink from the touch of her shadow, and she +laughed to think they should be so needlessly fearful. The flowing tide +trickled noiselessly among the rocks, widening and deepening +insidiously her little pools. Helena retreated towards a large cave +round the bend. There the water gurgled under the bladder-wrack of the +large stones; the air was cool and clammy. She pursued her way into the +gloom, bending, though there was no need, shivering at the coarse feel +of the seaweed beneath her naked feet. The water came rustling up +beneath the fucus as she crept along on the big stones; it returned +with a quiet gurgle which made her shudder, though even that was not +disagreeable. It needed, for all that, more courage than was easy to +summon before she could step off her stone into the black pool that +confronted her. It was festooned thick with weeds that slid under her +feet like snakes. She scrambled hastily upwards towards the outlet. + +Turning, the ragged arch was before heir, brighter than the brightest +window. It was easy to believe the light-fairies stood outside in a +throng, excited with fine fear, throwing handfuls of light into the +dragon’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 with +white fire, and glowing with azure as coals glow red with heat below +the flames. The sea was transfused with white burning, while over it +hung the blue sky in a glory, like the blue smoke of the fire of God. +Helena stood still and worshipped. It was a moment of astonishment, +when she stood breathless and blinded, involuntarily offering herself +for a thank-offering. She felt herself confronting God at home in His +white incandescence, His fire settling on her like the Holy Spirit. Her +lips were 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 saw +the waves like a line of children racing hand in hand, the sunlight +pursuing, catching hold of them from behind, as they ran wildly till +they fell, caught, with the sunshine dancing upon them like a white +dog. + +“It is really wonderful here!” said she; but the moment had gone, she +could not see again the grand burning of God among the waves. After a +while she turned away. + +As she stood dabbling her bathing-dress in a pool, Siegmund came over +the beach to her. + +“You are not gone, then?” he said. + +“Siegmund!” she exclaimed, looking up at him with radiant eyes, as if +it could not be possible that he had joined her in this rare place. His +face was glowing with the sun’s inflaming, but Helena did not notice +that his eyes were full of misery. + +“I, actually,” he said, smiling. + +“I did not expect you,” she said, still looking at him in radiant +wonder. “I could easier have expected”—she hesitated, struggled, and +continued—“Eros walking by the sea. But you are like him,” she said, +looking radiantly up into Siegmund’s face. “Isn’t it beautiful this +morning?” she added. + +Siegmund endured her wide, glad look for a moment, then he stooped and +kissed her. He remained moving his hand in the pool, ashamed, and full +of 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 the +water from her costume. + +“It is very fine,” he answered. He refrained from saying what his heart +said: “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 are +like 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-tips +the 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 his +position having reminded her of their departure. + +He laughed. + +“It seems another eternity before the three-forty-five train, doesn’t +it?” 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. +He could 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 the +responsibility of this holiday. She had proposed it; when he had +withdrawn, she had insisted, refusing to allow him to take back his +word, 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. + + + + +XVIII + + +Siegmund had shaved and dressed, and come down to breakfast. Mrs +Curtiss brought in the coffee. She was a fragile little woman, of +delicate, gentle manner. + +“The water would be warm this morning,” she said, addressing no one in +particular. + +Siegmund stood on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him, swaying +from one leg to the other. He was embarrassed always by the presence of +the amiable little woman; he could not feel at ease before strangers, +in his capacity of accepted swain of Helena. + +“It was,” assented Helena. “It was as warm as new milk.” + +“Ay, it would be,” said the old lady, looking in admiration upon the +experience of Siegmund and his beloved. “And did ye see the ships of +war?” she asked. + +“No, they had gone,” replied Helena. + +Siegmund swayed from foot to foot, rhythmically. + +“You’ll be coming in to dinner today?” asked the old lady. + +Helena arranged the matter. + +“I think ye both look better,” Mrs. Curtiss said. She glanced at +Siegmund. + +He smiled constrainedly. + +“I thought ye looked so worn when you came,” she said sympathetically. + +“He had been working hard,” said Helena, also glancing at him. + +He bent his head, and was whistling without making any sound. + +“Ay,” sympathized the little woman. “And it’s a very short time for +you. What a pity ye can’t stop for the fireworks at Cowes on Monday. +They are grand, so they say.” + +Helena raised her eyebrows in polite interest. “Have you never seen +them?” she asked. + +“No,” replied Mrs. Curtiss. “I’ve never been able to get; but I hope to +go yet.” + +“I hope you may,” said Siegmund. + +The little woman beamed on him. Having won a word from him, she was +quite satisfied. + +“Well,” she said brightly, “the eggs must be done by now.” + +She tripped out, to return directly. + +“I’ve brought you,” she said, “some of the Island cream, and some white +currants, if ye’ll have them. You must think well of the Island, and +come back.” + +“How could we help?” laughed Helena. + +“We will,” smiled Siegmund. + +When finally the door was closed on her, Siegmund sat down in relief. +Helena looked in amusement at him. She was perfectly self-possessed in +presence of the delightful little lady. + +“This is one of the few places that has ever felt like home to me,” she +said. She lifted a tangled bunch of fine white currants. + +“Ah!” exclaimed Siegmund, smiling at her. + +“One of the few places where everything is friendly,” she said. “And +everybody.” + +“You have made so many enemies?” he asked, with gentle irony. + +“Strangers,” she replied. “I seem to make strangers of all the people I +meet.” + +She laughed in amusement at this _mot_. Siegmund looked at her +intently. He was thinking of her left alone amongst strangers. + +“Need we go—need we leave this place of friends?” he said, as if +ironically. He was very much afraid of tempting her. + +She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and counted: “One, two, +three, four, five hours, thirty-five minutes. It is an age yet,” she +laughed. + +Siegmund laughed too, as he accepted the particularly fine bunch of +currants she had extricated for him. + + + + +XIX + + +The air was warm and sweet in the little lane, remote from the sea, +which led them along their last walk. On either side the white path was +a grassy margin thickly woven with pink convolvuli. Some of the +reckless little flowers, so gay and evanescent, had climbed the trunks +of an old yew tree, and were looking up pertly at their rough host. + +Helena walked along, watching the flowers, and making fancies out of +them. + +“Who called them ‘fairies’ telephones’?” she said to herself. “They are +tiny children in pinafores. How gay they are! They are children +dawdling along the pavement of a morning. How fortunate they are! See +how they take a wind-thrill! See how wide they are set to the sunshine! +And when they are tired, they will curl daintily to sleep, and some +fairies in the dark will gather them away. They won’t be here in the +morning, shrivelled and dowdy … If only we could curl up and be gone, +after our day….” + +She looked at Siegmund. He was walking moodily beside her. + +“It is good when life holds no anti-climax,” she said. + +“Ay!” he answered. Of course, he could not understand her meaning. + +She strayed into the thick grass, a sturdy white figure that walked +with bent head, abstract, but happy. + +“What is she thinking?” he asked himself. “She is sufficient to +herself—she doesn’t want me. She has her own private way of communing +with things, and is friends with them.” + +“The dew has been very heavy,” she said, turning, and looking up at him +from under her brows, like a smiling witch. + +“I see it has,” he answered. Then to himself he said: “She can’t +translate herself into language. She is incommunicable; she can’t +render herself to the intelligence. So she is alone and a law unto +herself: she only wants me to explore me, like a rock-pool, and to +bathe in me. After a while, when I am gone, she will see I was not +indispensable….” + +The lane led up to the eastern down. As they were emerging, they saw on +the left hand an extraordinarily spick and span red bungalow. The low +roof of dusky red sloped down towards the coolest green lawn, that was +edged and ornamented with scarlet, and yellow, and white flowers +brilliant with dew. + +A stout man in an alpaca jacket and panama hat was seated on the bare +lawn, his back to the sun, reading a newspaper. He tried in vain to +avoid the glare of the sun on his reading. At last he closed the paper +and looked angrily at the house—not at anything in particular. + +He irritably read a few more lines, then jerked up his head in sudden +decision, glared at the open door of the house, and called: + +“Amy! Amy!” + +No answer was forthcoming. He flung down the paper and strode off +indoors, his mien one of wrathful resolution. His voice was heard +calling curtly from the dining-room. There was a jingle of crockery as +he bumped the table leg in sitting down. + +“He is in a bad temper,” laughed Siegmund. + +“Breakfast is late,” said Helena with contempt. + +“Look!” said Siegmund. + +An elderly lady in black and white striped linen, a young lady in +holland, both carrying some wild flowers, hastened towards the garden +gate. Their faces were turned anxiously to the house. They were hot +with hurrying, and had no breath for words. The girl pressed forward, +opened the gate for the lady in striped linen, who hastened over the +lawn. Then the daughter followed, and vanished also under the shady +veranda. + +There was a quick sound of women’s low, apologetic voices, overridden +by the resentful abuse of the man. + +The lovers moved out of hearing. + +“Imagine that breakfast-table!” said Siegmund. + +“I feel,” said Helena, with a keen twang of contempt in her voice, “as +if a fussy cock and hens had just scuffled across my path.” + +“There are many such roosts,” said Siegmund pertinently. + +Helena’s cold scorn was very disagreeable to him. She talked to him +winsomely and very kindly as they crossed the open down to meet the +next incurving of the coast, and Siegmund was happy. But the sense of +humiliation, which he had got from her the day before, and which had +fixed itself, bled him secretly, like a wound. This haemorrhage of +self-esteem tortured him to the end. + +Helena had rejected him. She gave herself to her fancies only. For some +time she had confused Siegmund with her god. Yesterday she had cried to +her ideal lover, and found only Siegmund. It was the spear in the side +of his tortured self-respect. + +“At least,” he said, in mortification of himself—“at least, someone +must recognize a strain of God in me—and who does? I don’t believe in +it myself.” + +And, moreover, in the intense joy and suffering of his realized +passion, the island, with its sea and sky, had fused till, like a +brilliant bead, all their beauty ran together out of the common ore, +and Siegmund saw it naked, saw the beauty of everything naked in the +shifting magic of this bead. The island would be gone tomorrow: he +would look for the beauty and find the dirt. What was he to do? + +“You know, Domine,” said Helena—it was his old nickname she used—“you +look quite stern today.” + +“I feel anything but stern,” he laughed. “Weaker than usual, in fact.” + +“Yes, perhaps so, when you talk. Then you are really surprisingly +gentle. But when you are silent, I am even afraid of you—you seem so +grave.” + +He laughed. + +“And shall I not be brave?” he said. “Can’t you smell _Fumum et opes +strepitumque Romae_?” He turned quickly to Helena. “I wonder if that’s +right,” he said. “It’s years since I did a line of Latin, and I thought +it had all gone.” + +“In the first place, what does it mean?” said Helena calmly, “for I can +only half translate. I have thrown overboard all my scrap-books of such +stuff.” + +“Why,” said Siegmund, rather abashed, “only ‘the row and the smoke of +Rome’. But it is remarkable, Helena”—here the peculiar look of interest +came on his face again—“it is really remarkable that I should have said +that.” + +“Yes, you look surprised,” smiled she. + +“But it must be twenty”—he counted—“twenty-two or three years since I +learned that, and I forgot it—goodness knows how long ago. Like a +drowning man, I have these memories before….” He broke off, smiling +mockingly, to tease her. + +“Before you go back to London,” said she, in a matter-of-fact, almost +ironical tone. She was inscrutable. This morning she could not bear to +let any deep emotion come uppermost. She wanted rest. “No,” she said, +with calm distinctness, a few moments after, when they were climbing +the rise to the cliff’s edge. “I can’t say that I smell the smoke of +London. The mist-curtain is thick yet. There it is”—she pointed to the +heavy, purple-grey haze that hung like arras on a wall, between the +sloping sky and the sea. She thought of yesterday morning’s +mist-curtain, thick and blazing gold, so heavy that no wind could sway +its fringe. + +They lay down in the dry grass, upon the gold bits of bird’s-foot +trefoil of the cliff’s edge, and looked out to sea. A warm, drowsy calm +drooped over everything. + +“Six hours,” thought Helena, “and we shall have passed the +mist-curtain. Already it is thinning. I could break it open with waving +my hand. I will not wave my hand.” + +She was exhausted by the suffering of the last night, so she refused to +allow any emotion to move her this morning, till she was strong. +Siegmund was also exhausted; but his thoughts laboured like ants, in +spite of himself, striving towards a conclusion. + +Helena had rejected him. In his heart he felt that in this love affair +also he had been a failure. No matter how he contradicted himself, and +said it was absurd to imagine he was a failure as Helena’s lover, yet +he felt a physical sensation of defeat, a kind of knot in his breast +which neither reason, nor dialectics, nor circumstance, not even +Helena, could untie. He had failed as lover to Helena. + +It was not surprising his marriage with Beatrice should prove +disastrous. Rushing into wedlock as he had done, at the ripe age of +seventeen, he had known nothing of his woman, nor she of him. When his +mind and soul set to develop, as Beatrice could not sympathize with his +interests, he naturally inclined away from her, so that now, after +twenty years, he was almost a stranger to her. That was not very +surprising. + +But why should he have failed with Helena? + +The bees droned fitfully over the scented grass, aimlessly swinging in +the heat. Siegmund watched one gold and amber fellow lazily let go a +white clover-head, and boom in a careless curve out to sea, humming +softer and softer as he reeled along in the giddy space. + +“The little fool!” said Siegmund, watching the black dot swallowed into +the light. + +No ship sailed the curving sea. The light danced in a whirl upon the +ripples. Everything else watched with heavy eyes of heat enhancement +the wild spinning of the lights. + +“Even if I were free,” he continued to think, “we should only grow +apart, Helena and I. She would leave me. This time I should be the +laggard. She is young and vigorous; I am beginning to set. + +“Is that why I have failed? I ought to have had her in love +sufficiently to keep her these few days. I am not quick. I do not +follow her or understand her swiftly enough. And I am always timid of +compulsion. I cannot compel anybody to follow me. + +“So we are here. I am out of my depth. Like the bee, I was mad with the +sight of so much joy, such a blue space, and now I shall find no +footing to alight on. I have flown out into life beyond my strength to +get back. When can I set my feet on when this is gone?” + +The sun grew stronger. Slower and more slowly went the hawks of +Siegmund’s mind, after the quarry of conclusion. He lay bare-headed, +looking out to sea. The sun was burning deeper into his face and head. + +“I feel as if it were burning into me,” thought Siegmund abstractedly. +“It is certainly consuming some part of me. Perhaps it is making me +ill.” Meanwhile, perversely, he gave his face and his hot black hair to +the sun. + +Helena lay in what shadow he afforded. The heat put out all her +thought-activity. Presently she said: + +“This heat is terrible, Siegmund. Shall we go down to the water?” + +They climbed giddily down the cliff path. Already they were somewhat +sun-intoxicated. Siegmund chose the hot sand, where no shade was, on +which to lie. + +“Shall we not go under the rocks?” said Helena. + +“Look!” he said, “the sun is beating on the cliffs. It is hotter, more +suffocating, there.” + +So they lay down in the glare, Helena watching the foam retreat slowly +with a cool splash; Siegmund thinking. The naked body of heat was +dreadful. + +“My arms, Siegmund,” said she. “They feel as if they were dipped in +fire.” + +Siegmund took them, without a word, and hid them under his coat. + +“Are you sure it is not bad for you—your head, Siegmund? Are you sure?” + +He laughed stupidly. + +“That is all right,” he said. He knew that the sun was burning through +him, and doing him harm, but he wanted the intoxication. + +As he looked wistfully far away over the sea at Helena’s mist-curtain, +he said: + +“I _think_ we should be able to keep together if”—he faltered—“if only +I could have you a little longer. I have never had you …” + +Some sound of failure, some tone telling her it was too late, some ring +of despair in his quietness, made Helena cling to him wildly, with a +savage little cry as if she were wounded. She clung to him, almost +beside herself. She could not lose him, she could not spare him. She +would not let him go. Helena was, for the moment, frantic. + +He held her safely, saying nothing until she was calmer, when, with his +lips on her cheek, he murmured: + +“I should be able, shouldn’t I, Helena?” + +“You are always able!” she cried. “It is I who play with you at +hiding.” + +“I have really had you so little,” he said. + +“Can’t you forget it, Siegmund?” she cried. “Can’t you forget it? It +was only a shadow, Siegmund. It was a lie, it was nothing real. Can’t +you forget it, dear?” + +“You can’t do without me?” he asked. + +“If I lose you I am lost,” answered she with swift decision. She had no +knowledge of weeping, yet her tears were wet on his face. He held her +safely; her arms were hidden under his coat. + +“I will have no mercy on those shadows the next time they come between +us,” said Helena to herself. “They may go back to hell.” + +She still clung to him, craving so to have him that he could not be +reft away. + +Siegmund felt very peaceful. He lay with his arms about her, listening +to the backward-creeping tide. All his thoughts, like bees, were flown +out to sea and lost. + +“If I had her more, I should understand her through and through. If we +were side by side we should grow together. If we could stay here, I +should get stronger and more upright.” + +This was the poor heron of quarry the hawks of his mind had struck. + +Another hour fell like a foxglove bell from the stalk. There were only +two red blossoms left. Then the stem would have set to seed. Helena +leaned her head upon the breast of Siegmund, her arms clasping, under +his coat, his body, which swelled and sank gently, with the quiet of +great power. + +“If,” thought she, “the whole clock of the world could stand still now, +and leave us thus, me with the lift and fall of the strong body of +Siegmund in my arms….” + +But the clock ticked on in the heat, the seconds marked off by the +falling of the waves, repeated so lightly, and in such fragile rhythm, +that it made silence sweet. + +“If now,” prayed Siegmund, “death would wipe the sweat from me, and it +were dark….” + +But the waves softly marked the minutes, retreating farther, leaving +the bare rocks to bleach and the weed to shrivel. + +Gradually, like the shadow on a dial, the knowledge that it was time to +rise and go crept upon them. Although they remained silent, each knew +that the other felt the same weight of responsibility, the +shadow-finger of the sundial travelling over them. The alternative was, +not to return, to let the finger travel and be gone. But then … Helena +knew she must not let the time cross her; she must rise before it was +too late, and travel before the coming finger. Siegmund hoped she would +not get up. He lay in suspense, waiting. + +At last she sat up abruptly. + +“It is time, Siegmund,” she said. + +He did not answer, he did not look at her, but lay as she had left him. +She wiped her face with her handkerchief, waiting. Then she bent over +him. He did not look at her. She saw his forehead was swollen and +inflamed with the sun. Very gently she wiped from it the glistening +sweat. He closed his eyes, and she wiped his cheeks and his mouth. +Still he did not look at her. She bent very close to him, feeling her +heart crushed with grief for him. + +“We must go, Siegmund,” she whispered. + +“All right,” he said, but still he did not move. + +She stood up beside him, shook herself, and tried to get a breath of +air. She was dazzled blind by the sunshine. + +Siegmund lay in the bright light, with his eyes closed, never moving. +His face was inflamed, but fixed like a mask. + +Helena waited, until the terror of the passing of the hour was too +strong for her. She lifted his hand, which lay swollen with heat on the +sand, and she tried gently to draw him. + +“We shall be too late,” she said in distress. + +He sighed and sat up, looking out over the water. + +Helena could not bear to see him look so vacant and expressionless. She +put her arm round his neck, and pressed his head against her skirt. + +Siegmund knew he was making it unbearable for her. Pulling himself +together, he bent his head from the sea, and said: + +“Why, what time is it?” + +He took out his watch, holding it in his hand. Helena still held his +left hand, and had one arm round his neck. + +“I can’t see the figures,” he said. “Everything is dimmed, as if it +were coming dark.” + +“Yes,” replied Helena, in that reedy, painful tone of hers. “My eyes +were the same. It is the strong sunlight.” + +“I can’t,” he repeated, and he was rather surprised—“I can’t see the +time. Can you?” + +She stooped down and looked. + +“It is half past one,” she said. + +Siegmund hated her voice as she spoke. There was still sufficient time +to catch the train. He stood up, moved inside his clothing, saying: “I +feel almost stunned by the heat. I can hardly see, and all my feeling +in my body is dulled.” + +“Yes,” answered Helena, “I am afraid it will do you harm.” + +“At any rate,” he smiled as if sleepily, “I have had enough. If it’s +too much—what _is_ too much?” + +They went unevenly over the sand, their eyes sun-dimmed. + +“We are going back—we are going back!” the heart of Helena seemed to +run hot, beating these words. + +They climbed the cliff path toilsomely. Standing at the top, on the +edge of the grass, they looked down the cliffs at the beach and over +the sea. The strand was wide, forsaken by the sea, forlorn with rocks +bleaching in the sun, and sand and seaweed breathing off their painful +scent upon the heat. The sea crept smaller, farther away; the sky stood +still. Siegmund and Helena looked hopelessly out on their beautiful, +incandescent world. They looked hopelessly at each other, Siegmund’s +mood was gentle and forbearing. He smiled faintly at Helena, then +turned, and, lifting his hand to his mouth in a kiss for the beauty he +had enjoyed, “_Addio_!” he said. + +He turned away, and, looking from Helena landwards, he said, smiling +peculiarly: + +“It reminds me of Traviata—an ‘_Addio_’ at every verse-end.” + +She smiled with her mouth in acknowledgement of his facetious irony; it +jarred on her. He was pricked again by her supercilious reserve. +“_Addi-i-i-i-o, Addi-i-i-o_!” he whistled between his teeth, hissing +out the Italian’s passion-notes in a way that made Helena clench her +fists. + +“I suppose,” she said, swallowing, and recovering her voice to check +this discord—“I suppose we shall have a fairly easy journey—Thursday.” + +“I don’t know,” said Siegmund. + +“There will not be very many people,” she insisted. + +“I think,” he said, in a very quiet voice, “you’d better let me go by +the South-Western from Portsmouth while you go on by the Brighton.” + +“But why?” she exclaimed in astonishment. + +“I don’t want to sit looking at you all the way,” he said. + +“But why should you?” she exclaimed. + +He laughed. + +“Indeed, no!” she said. “We shall go together.” + +“Very well,” he answered. + +They walked on in silence towards the village. As they drew near the +little post office, he said: + +“I suppose I may as well wire them that I shall be home tonight.” + +“You haven’t sent them any word?” she asked. + +He laughed. They came to the open door of the little shop. He stood +still, not entering. Helena wondered what he was thinking. + +“Shall I?” he asked, meaning, should he wire to Beatrice. His manner +was rather peculiar. + +“Well, I should think so,” faltered Helena, turning away to look at the +postcards in the window. Siegmund entered the shop. It was dark and +cumbered with views, cheap china ornaments, and toys. He asked for a +telegraph form. + +“My God!” he said to himself bitterly as he took the pencil. He could +not sign the abbreviated name his wife used towards him. He scribbled +his surname, as he would have done to a stranger. As he watched the +amiable, stout woman counting up his words carefully, pointing with her +finger, he felt sick with irony. + +“That’s right,” she said, picking up the sixpence and taking the form +to the instrument. “What beautiful weather!” she continued. “It will be +making you sorry to leave us.” + +“There goes my warrant,” thought Siegmund, watching the flimsy bit of +paper under the post-mistress’s heavy hand. + +“Yes—it is too bad, isn’t it,” he replied, bowing and laughing to the +woman. + +“It is, sir,” she answered pleasantly. “Good morning.” + +He came out of the shop still smiling, and when Helena turned from the +postcards to look at him, the lines of laughter remained over his face +like a mask. She glanced at his eyes for a sign; his facial expression +told her nothing; his eyes were just as inscrutable, which made her +falter with dismay. + +“What is he thinking of?” she asked herself. Her thoughts flashed back. +“And why did he ask me so peculiarly whether he should wire them at +home?” + +“Well,” said Siegmund, “are there any postcards?” + +“None that I care to take,” she replied. “Perhaps you would like one of +these?” + +She pointed to some faded-looking cards which proved to be imaginary +views of Alum Bay done in variegated sand. Siegmund smiled. + +“I wonder if they dribbled the sand on with a fine glass tube,” he +said. + +“Or a brush,” said Helena. + +“She does not understand,” said Siegmund to himself. “And whatever I do +I must not tell her. I should have thought she would understand.” + +As he walked home beside her there mingled with his other feelings +resentment against her. Almost he hated her. + + + + +XX + + +At first they had a carriage to themselves. They sat opposite each +other with averted faces, looking out of the windows and watching the +houses, the downs dead asleep in the sun, the embankments of the +railway with exhausted hot flowers go slowly past out of their reach. +They felt as if they were being dragged away like criminals. Unable to +speak or think, they stared out of the windows, Helena struggling in +vain to keep back her tears, Siegmund labouring to breathe normally. + +At Yarmouth the door was snatched open, and there was a confusion of +shouting and running; a swarm of humanity, clamouring, attached itself +at the carriage doorway, which was immediately blocked by a stout man +who heaved a leather bag in front of him as he cried in German that +here was room for all. Faces innumerable—hot, blue-eyed faces—strained +to look over his shoulders at the shocked girl and the amazed Siegmund. + +There entered eight Germans into the second-class compartment, five men +and three ladies. When at last the luggage was stowed away they sank +into the seats. The last man on either side to be seated lowered +himself carefully, like a wedge, between his two neighbours. Siegmund +watched the stout man, the one who had led the charge, settling himself +between his large lady and the small Helena. The latter crushed herself +against the side of the carriage. The German’s hips came down tight +against her. She strove to lessen herself against the window, to escape +the pressure of his flesh, whose heat was transmitted to her. The man +squeezed in the opposite direction. + +“I am afraid I press you,” he said, smiling in his gentle, chivalric +German fashion. Helena glanced swiftly at him. She liked his grey eyes, +she liked the agreeable intonation, and the pleasant sound of his +words. + +“Oh no,” she answered. “You do not crush me.” + +Almost before she had finished the words she turned away to the window. +The man seemed to hesitate a moment, as if recovering himself from a +slight rebuff, before he could address his lady with the good-humoured +remark in German: “Well, and have we not managed it very nicely, eh?” + +The whole party began to talk in German with great animation. They told +each other of the quaint ways of this or the other; they joked loudly +over “Billy”—this being a nickname discovered for the German +Emperor—and what he would be saying of the Czar’s trip; they questioned +each other, and answered each other concerning the places they were +going to see, with great interest, displaying admirable knowledge. They +were pleased with everything; they extolled things English. + +Helena’s stout neighbour, who, it seemed, was from Dresden, began to +tell anecdotes. He was a _raconteur_ of the naïve type: he talked with +face, hands, with his whole body. Now and again he would give little +spurts in his seat. After one of these he must have become aware of +Helena—who felt as if she were enveloped by a soft stove—struggling to +escape his compression. He stopped short, lifted his hat, and smiling +beseechingly, said in his persuasive way: + +“I am sorry. I am sorry. I compress you!” He glanced round in +perplexity, seeking some escape or remedy. Finding none, he turned to +her again, after having squeezed hard against his lady to free Helena, +and said: + +“Forgive me, I am sorry.” + +“You are forgiven,” replied Helena, suddenly smiling into his face with +her rare winsomeness. The whole party, attentive, relaxed into a smile +at this. The good humour was complete. + +“Thank you,” said the German gratefully. + +Helena turned away. The talk began again like the popping of corn; the +_raconteur_ resumed his anecdote. Everybody was waiting to laugh. +Helena rapidly wearied of trying to follow the tale. Siegmund had made +no attempt. He had watched, with the others, the German’s apologies, +and the sight of his lover’s face had moved him more than he could +tell. + +She had a peculiar, childish wistfulness at times, and with this an +intangible aloofness that pierced his heart. It seemed to him he should +never know her. There was a remoteness about her, an estrangement +between her and all natural daily things, as if she were of an unknown +race that never can tell its own story. This feeling always moved +Siegmund’s pity to its deepest, leaving him poignantly helpless. This +same foreignness, revealed in other ways, sometimes made him hate her. +It was as if she would sacrifice him rather than renounce her foreign +birth. There was something in her he could never understand, so that +never, never could he say he was master of her as she was of him the +mistress. + +As she smiled and turned away from the German, mute, uncomplaining, +like a child wise in sorrow beyond its years, Siegmund’s resentment +against her suddenly took fire, and blazed him with sheer pain of pity. +She was very small. Her quiet ways, and sometimes her impetuous +clinging made her seem small; for she was very strong. But Siegmund saw +her now, small, quiet, uncomplaining, living for him who sat and looked +at her. But what would become of her when he had left her, when she was +alone, little foreigner as she was, in this world, which apologizes +when it has done the hurt, too blind to see beforehand? Helena would be +left behind; death was no way for her. She could not escape thus with +him from this house of strangers which she called “life”. She had to go +on alone, like a foreigner who cannot learn the strange language. + +“What will she do?” Siegmund asked himself, “when her loneliness comes +upon her like a horror, and she has no one to go to. She will come to +the memory of me for a while, and that will take her over till her +strength is established. But what then?” + +Siegmund could find no answer. He tried to imagine her life. It would +go on, after his death, just in the same way, for a while, and then? He +had not the faintest knowledge of how she would develop. What would she +do when she was thirty-eight, and as old as himself? He could not +conceive. Yet she would not die, of that he was certain. + +Siegmund suddenly realized that he knew nothing of her life, her real +inner life. She was a book written in characters unintelligible to him +and to everybody. He was tortured with the problem of her till it +became acute, and he felt as if his heart would burst inside him. As a +boy he had experienced the same sort of feeling after wrestling for an +hour with a problem in Euclid, for he was capable of great +concentration. + +He felt Helena looking at him. Turning, he found her steady, unswerving +eyes fixed on him, so that he shrank confused from them. She smiled: by +an instinctive movement she made him know that she wanted him to hold +her hand. He leaned forward and put his hand over hers. She had +peculiar hands, small, with a strange, delightful silkiness. Often they +were cool or cold; generally they lay unmoved within his clasp, but +then they were instinct with life, not inert. Sometimes he would feel a +peculiar jerking in his pulse, very much like electricity, when he held +her hand. Occasionally it was almost painful, and felt as if a little +virtue were passing out of his blood. But that he dismissed as +nonsense. + +The Germans were still rattling away, perspiring freely, wiping their +faces with their handkerchiefs as they laughed, moving inside their +clothing, which was sticking to their sides. Siegmund had not noticed +them for some time, he was so much absorbed. But Helena, though she +sympathized with her fellow-passengers, was tormented almost beyond +endurance by the noise, the heat of her neighbour’s body, the +atmosphere of the crowded carriage, and her own emotion. The only thing +that could relieve her was the hand of Siegmund soothing her in its +hold. + +She looked at him with the same steadiness which made her eyes feel +heavy upon him, and made him shrink. She wanted his strength of nerve +to support her, and he submitted at once, his one aim being to give her +out of himself whatever she wanted. + + + + +XXI + + +The tall white yachts in a throng were lounging off the roads of Ryde. +It was near the regatta time, so these proud creatures had flown +loftily together, and now flitted hither and thither among themselves, +like a concourse of tall women, footing the waves with superb touch. To +Siegmund they were very beautiful, but removed from him, as dancers +crossing the window-lights are removed from the man who looks up from +the street. He saw the Solent and the world of glamour flying gay as +snow outside, where inside was only Siegmund, tired, dispirited, +without any joy. + +He and Helena had climbed among coils of rope on to the prow of their +steamer, so they could catch a little spray of speed on their faces to +stimulate them. The sea was very bright and crowded. White sails leaned +slightly and filed along the roads; two yachts with sails of amber +floated, it seemed, without motion, amid the eclipsed blue of the day; +small boats with red and yellow flags fluttered quickly, trailing the +sea with colour; a pleasure steamer coming from Cowes swung her soft +stout way among the fleeting ships; high in the background were +men-of-war, a long line, each one threading tiny triangles of flags +through a sky dim with distance. + +“It is all very glad,” said Siegmund to himself, “but it seems to be +fanciful.” + +He was out of it. Already he felt detached from life. He belonged to +his destination. It is always so: we have no share in the beauty that +lies between us and our goal. + +Helena watched with poignant sorrow all the agitation of colour on the +blue afternoon. + +“We must leave it; we must pass out of it,” she lamented, over and over +again. Each new charm she caught eagerly. + +“I like the steady purpose of that brown-sailed tramp,” she said to +herself, watching a laden coaster making for Portsmouth. + +They were still among the small shipping of Ryde. Siegmund and Helena, +as they looked out, became aware of a small motor-launch heading across +their course towards a yacht whose tall masts were drawn clean on the +sky. The eager launch, its nose up as if to breathe, was racing over +the swell like a coursing dog. A lady, in white, and a lad with dark +head and white jersey were leaning in the bows; a gentleman was bending +over some machinery in the middle of the boat, while the sailor in the +low stern was also stooping forward attending to something. The steamer +was sweeping onwards, huge above the water; the dog of a boat was +coursing straight across her track. The lady saw the danger first. +Stretching forward, she seized the arm of the lad and held him firm, +making no sound, but watching the forward menace of the looming +steamer. + +“Look!” cried Helena, catching hold of Siegmund. He was already +watching. Suddenly the steamer bell clanged. The gentleman looked up, +with startled, sunburned face; then he leaped to the stern. The launch +veered. It and the steamer closed together like a pair of scissors. The +lady, still holding the boy, looked up with an expressionless face at +the high sweeping chisel of the steamer’s bows; the husband stood +rigid, staring ahead. No sound was to be heard save the rustling of +water under the bows. The scissors closed, the launch skelped forward +like a dog from in front of the traffic. It escaped by a yard or two. +Then, like a dog, it seemed to look round. The gentleman in the stern +glanced back quickly. He was a handsome, dark-haired man with dark +eyes. His face was as if carven out of oak, set and grey-brown. Then he +looked to the steering of his boat. No one had uttered a sound. From +the tiny boat coursing low on the water, not a sound, only tense +waiting. The launch raced out of danger towards the yacht. The +gentleman, with a brief gesture, put his man in charge again, whilst he +himself went forward to the lady. He was a handsome man, very proud in +his movements; and she, in her bearing, was prouder still. She received +him almost with indifference. + +Helena turned to Siegmund. He took both her hands and pressed them, +whilst she looked at him with eyes blind with emotion. She was white to +the lips, and heaving like the buoy in the wake of the steamer. The +noise of life had suddenly been hushed, and each heart had heard for a +moment the noiselessness of death. How everyone was white and gasping! +They strove, on every hand, to fill the day with noise and the colour +of life again. + +“By Jove, that was a near thing!” + +“Ah, that has made me feel bad!” said a woman. + +“A French yacht,” said somebody. + +Helena was waiting for the voice of Siegmund. But he did not know what +to say. Confused, he repeated: + +“That was a close shave.” + +Helena clung to him, searching his face. She felt his difference from +herself. There was something in his experience that made him different, +quiet, with a peculiar expression as if he were pained. + +“Ah, dear Lord!” he was saying to himself. “How bright and whole the +day is for them! If God had suddenly put His hand over the sun, and +swallowed us up in a shadow, they could not have been more startled. +That man, with his fine, white-flannelled limbs and his dark head, has +no suspicion of the shadow that supports it all. Between the blueness +of the sea and the sky he passes easy as a gull, close to the fine +white seamew of his mate, amid red flowers of flags, and soft birds of +ships, and slow-moving monsters of steamboats. + +“For me the day is transparent and shrivelling. I can see the darkness +through its petals. But for him it is a fresh bell-flower, in which he +fumbles with delights like a bee. + +“For me, quivering in the interspaces of the atmosphere, is the +darkness the same that fills in my soul. I can see death urging itself +into life, the shadow supporting the substance. For my life is burning +an invisible flame. The glare of the light of myself, as I burn on the +fuel of death, is not enough to hide from me the source and the issue. +For what is a life but a flame that bursts off the surface of darkness, +and tapers into the darkness again? But the death that issues differs +from the death that was the source. At least, I shall enrich death with +a potent shadow, if I do not enrich life.” + +“Wasn’t that woman fine!” said Helena. + +“So perfectly still,” he answered. + +“The child realized nothing,” she said. + +Siegmund laughed, then leaned forward impulsively to her. + +“I am always so sorry,” he said, “that the human race is urged +inevitably into a deeper and deeper realization of life.” + +She looked at him, wondering what provoked such a remark. + +“I guess,” she said slowly, after a while, “that the man, the sailor, +will have a bad time. He was abominably careless.” + +“He was careful of something else just then,” said Siegmund, who hated +to hear her speak in cold condemnation. “He was attending to the +machinery or something.” + +“That was scarcely his first business,” said she, rather sarcastic. + +Siegmund looked at her. She seemed very hard in judgement—very blind. +Sometimes his soul surged against her in hatred. + +“Do you think the man _wanted_ to drown the boat?” he asked. + +“He nearly succeeded,” she replied. + +There was antagonism between them. Siegmund recognized in Helena the +world sitting in judgement, and he hated it. “But, after all,” he +thought, I suppose it is the only way to get along, to judge the event +and not the person. I have a disease of sympathy, a vice of +exoneration.” + +Nevertheless, he did not love Helena as a judge. He thought rather of +the woman in the boat. She was evidently one who watched the sources of +life, saw it great and impersonal. + +“Would the woman cry, or hug and kiss the boy when she got on board?” +he asked. + +“I rather think not. Why?” she replied. + +“I hope she didn’t,” he said. + +Helena sat watching the water spurt back from the bows. She was very +much in love with Siegmund. He was suggestive; he stimulated her. But +to her mind he had not her own dark eyes of hesitation; he was swift +and proud as the wind. She never realized his helplessness. + +Siegmund was gathering strength from the thought of that other woman’s +courage. If she had so much restraint as not to cry out, or alarm the +boy, if she had so much grace not to complain to her husband, surely he +himself might refrain from revealing his own fear of Helena, and from +lamenting his hard fate. + +They sailed on past the chequered round towers. The sea opened, and +they looked out to eastward into the sea-space. Siegmund wanted to +flee. He yearned to escape down the open ways before him. Yet he knew +he would be carried on to London. He watched the sea-ways closing up. +The shore came round. The high old houses stood flat on the right hand. +The shore swept round in a sickle, reaping them into the harbour. There +the old _Victory_, gay with myriad pointed pennons, was harvested, +saved for a trophy. + +“It is a dreadful thing,” thought Siegmund, “to remain as a trophy when +there is nothing more to do.” He watched the landing-stages swooping +nearer. There were the trains drawn up in readiness. At the other end +of the train was London. + +He could scarcely bear to have Helena before him for another two hours. +The suspense of that protracted farewell, while he sat opposite her in +the beating train, would cost too much. He longed to be released from +her. + +They had got their luggage, and were standing at the foot of the +ladder, in the heat of the engines and the smell of hot oil, waiting +for the crowd to pass on, so that they might ascend and step off the +ship on to the mainland. + +“Won’t you let me go by the South-Western, and you by the Brighton?” +asked Siegmund, hesitating, repeating the morning’s question. + +Helena looked at him, knitting her brows with misgiving and perplexity. + +“No,” she replied. “Let us go together.” + +Siegmund followed her up the iron ladder to the quay. + +There was no great crowd on the train. They easily found a second-class +compartment without occupants. He swung the luggage on the rack and sat +down, facing Helena. + +“Now,” said he to himself, “I wish I were alone.” + +He wanted to think and prepare himself. + +Helena, who was thinking actively, leaned forward to him to say: + +“Shall I not go down to Cornwall?” + +By her soothing willingness to do anything for him, Siegmund knew that +she was dogging him closely. He could not bear to have his anxiety +protracted. + +“But you have promised Louisa, have you not?” he replied. + +“Oh, well!” she said, in the peculiar slighting tone she had when she +wished to convey the unimportance of affairs not touching him. + +“Then you must go,” he said. + +“But,” she began, with harsh petulance, “I do not want to go down to +Cornwall with _Louisa and Olive_”—she accentuated the two names—“after +_this_,” she added. + +“Then Louisa will have no holiday—and you have promised,” he said +gravely. + +Helena looked at him. She saw he had decided that she should go. + +“Is my promise so _very_ important?” she asked. She glanced angrily at +the three ladies who were hesitating in the doorway. Nevertheless, the +ladies entered, and seated themselves at the opposite end of the +carriage. Siegmund did not know whether he were displeased or relieved +by their intrusion. If they had stayed out, he might have held Helena +in his arms for still another hour. As it was, she could not harass him +with words. He tried not to look at her, but to think. + +The train at last moved out of the station. As it passed through +Portsmouth, Siegmund remembered his coming down, on the Sunday. It +seemed an indefinite age ago. He was thankful that he sat on the side +of the carriage opposite from the one he had occupied five days before. +The afternoon of the flawless sky was ripening into evening. The +chimneys and the sides of the houses of Portsmouth took on that radiant +appearance which transfigures the end of day in town. A rich bloom of +light appears on the surfaces of brick and stone. + +“It will go on,” thought Siegmund, “being gay of an evening, for ever. +And I shall miss it all!” + +But as soon as the train moved into the gloom of the Town station, he +began again: + +“Beatrice will be proud, and silent as steel when I get home. She will +say nothing, thank God—nor shall I. That will expedite matters: there +will be no interruptions…. + +“But we cannot continue together after this. Why should I discuss +reasons for and against? We cannot. She goes to a cottage in the +country. Already I have spoken of it to her. I allow her all I can of +my money, and on the rest I manage for myself in lodgings in London. +Very good. + +“But when I am comparatively free I cannot live alone. I shall want +Helena; I shall remember the children. If I have the one, I shall be +damned by the thought of the other. This bruise on my mind will never +get better. Helena says she would never come to me; but she would, out +of pity for me. I know she would. + +“But then, what then? Beatrice and the children in the country, and me +not looking after the children. Beatrice is thriftless. She would be in +endless difficulty. It would be a degradation to me. She would keep a +red sore inflamed against me; I should be a shameful thing in her +mouth. Besides, there would go all her strength. She would not make any +efforts. ‘He has brought it on us,’ she would say; ‘let him see what +the result is.’ And things would go from bad to worse with them. It +would be a gangrene of shame. + +“And Helena—I should have nothing but mortification. When she was +asleep I could not look at her. She is such a strange, incongruous +creature. But I should be responsible for her. She believes in me as if +I had the power of God. What should I think of myself?” + +Siegmund leaned with his head against the window, watching the country +whirl past, but seeing nothing. He thought imaginatively, and his +imagination destroyed him. He pictured Beatrice in the country. He +sketched the morning—breakfast haphazard at a late hour; the elder +children rushing off without food, miserable and untidy, the youngest +bewildered under her swift, indifferent preparations for school. He +thought of Beatrice in the evening, worried and irritable, her bills +unpaid, the work undone, declaiming lamentably against the cruelty of +her husband, who had abandoned her to such a burden of care while he +took his pleasure elsewhere. + +This line exhausted or intolerable, Siegmund switched off to the +consideration of his own life in town. He would go to America; the +agreement was signed with the theatre manager. But America would be +only a brief shutting of the eyes and closing of the mouth. He would +wait for the home-coming to Helena, and she would wait for him. It was +inevitable; then would begin—what? He would never have enough money to +keep Helena, even if he managed to keep himself. Their meetings would +then be occasional and clandestine. Ah, it was intolerable! + +“If I were rich,” said Siegmund, “all would be plain. I would give each +of my children enough, and Beatrice, and we would go away; but I am +nearly forty; I have no genius; I shall never be rich,” Round and round +went his thoughts like oxen over a threshing floor, treading out the +grain. Gradually the chaff flew away; gradually the corn of conviction +gathered small and hard upon the floor. + +As he sat thinking, Helena leaned across to him and laid her hand on +his knee. + +“If I have made things more difficult,” she said, her voice harsh with +pain, “you will forgive me.” + +He started. This was one of the cruel cuts of pain that love gives, +filling the eyes with blood. Siegmund stiffened himself; slowly he +smiled, as he looked at her childish, plaintive lips, and her large +eyes haunted with pain. + +“Forgive you?” he repeated. “Forgive you for five days of perfect +happiness; the only real happiness I have ever known!” + +Helena tightened her fingers on his knee. She felt herself stinging +with painful joy; but one of the ladies was looking her curiously. She +leaned back in her place, and turned to watch at the shocks of corn +strike swiftly, in long rows, across her vision. + +Siegmund, also quivering, turned his face to the window, where the +rotation of the wide sea-flat helped the movement of his thought. +Helena had interrupted him. She had bewildered his thoughts from their +hawking, so that they struck here and there, wildly, among small, +pitiful prey that was useless, conclusions which only hindered the +bringing home of the final convictions. + +“What will she do?” cried Siegmund, “What will she do when I am gone? +What will become of her? Already she has no aim in life; then she will +have no object. Is it any good my going if I leave her behind? What an +inextricable knot this is! But what will she do?” + +It was a question she had aroused before, a question which he could +never answer; indeed, it was not for him to answer. + +They wound through the pass of the South Downs. As Siegmund, looking +backward, saw the northern slope of the downs swooping smoothly, in a +great, broad bosom of sward, down to the body of the land, he warmed +with sudden love for the earth; there the great downs were, naked like +a breast, leaning kindly to him. The earth is always kind; it loves us, +and would foster us like a nurse. The downs were big and tender and +simple. Siegmund looked at the farm, folded in a hollow, and he +wondered what fortunate folk were there, nourished and quiet, hearing +the vague roar of the train that was carrying him home. + +Up towards Arundel the cornfields of red wheat were heavy with gold. It +was evening, when the green of the trees went out, leaving dark shapes +proud upon the sky; but the red wheat was forged in the sunset, hot and +magnificent. Siegmund almost gloated as he smelled the ripe corn, and +opened his eyes to its powerful radiation. For a moment he forgot +everything, amid the forging of red fields of gold in the smithy of the +sunset. Like sparks, poppies blew along the railway-banks, a crimson +train. Siegmund waited, through the meadows, for the next wheat-field. +It came like the lifting of yellow-hot metal out of the gloom of +darkened grass-lands. + +Helena was reassured by the glamour of evening over ripe Sussex. She +breathed the land now and then, while she watched the sky. The sunset +was stately. The blue-eyed day, with great limbs, having fought its +victory and won, now mounted triumphant on its pyre, and with white +arms uplifted took the flames, which leaped like blood about its feet. +The day died nobly, so she thought. + +One gold cloud, as an encouragement tossed to her, followed the train. + +“Surely that cloud is for us,” said she, as she watched it anxiously. +Dark trees brushed between it and her, while she waited in suspense. It +came, unswerving, from behind the trees. + +“I am sure it is for us,” she repeated. A gladness came into her eyes. +Still the cloud followed the train. She leaned forward to Siegmund and +pointed out the cloud to him. She was very eager to give him a little +of her faith. + +“It has come with us quite a long way. Doesn’t it seem to you to be +travelling with us? It is the golden hand; it is the good omen.” + +She then proceeded to tell him the legend from “Aylwin”. + +Siegmund listened, and smiled. The sunset was handsome on his face. + +Helena was almost happy. + +“I am right,” said he to himself. I am right in my conclusions, and +Helena will manage by herself afterwards. I am right; there is the hand +to confirm it.” + +The heavy train settled down to an easy, unbroken stroke, swinging like +a greyhound over the level northwards. All the time Siegmund was +mechanically thinking the well-known movement from the Valkyrie Ride, +his whole self beating to the rhythm. It seemed to him there was a +certain grandeur in this flight, but it hurt him with its heavy +insistence of catastrophe. He was afraid; he had to summon his courage +to sit quiet. For a time he was reassured; he believed he was going on +towards the right end. He hunted through the country and the sky, +asking of everything, “Am I right? Am I right?” He did not mind what +happened to him, so long as he felt it was right. What he meant by +“right” he did not trouble to think, but the question remained. For a +time he had been reassured; then a dullness came over him, when his +thoughts were stupid, and he merely submitted to the rhythm of the +train, which stamped him deeper and deeper with a brand of catastrophe. + +The sun had gone down. Over the west was a gush of brightness as the +fountain of light bubbled lower. The stars, like specks of froth from +the foaming of the day, clung to the blue ceiling. Like spiders they +hung overhead, while the hosts of the gold atmosphere poured out of the +hive by the western low door. Soon the hive was empty, a hollow dome of +purple, with here and there on the floor a bright brushing of wings—a +village; then, overhead, the luminous star-spider began to run. + +“Ah, well!” thought Siegmund—he was tired—“if one bee dies in a swarm, +what is it, so long as the hive is all right? Apart from the gold +light, and the hum and the colour of day, what was I? Nothing! Apart +from these rushings out of the hive, along with swarm, into the dark +meadows of night, gathering God knows what, I was a pebble. Well, the +day will swarm in golden again, with colour on the wings of every bee, +and humming in each activity. The gold and the colour and sweet smell +and the sound of life, they exist, even if there is no bee; it only +happens we see the iridescence on the wings of a bee. It exists whether +or not, bee or no bee. Since the iridescence and the humming of life +_are_ always, and since it was they who made me, then I am not lost. At +least, I do not care. If the spark goes out, the essence of the fire is +there in the darkness. What does it matter? Besides, I _have_ burned +bright; I have laid up a fine cell of honey somewhere—I wonder where? +We can never point to it; but it _is_ so—what does it matter, then!” + +They had entered the north downs, and were running through Dorking +towards Leatherhead. Box Hill stood dark in the dusky sweetness of the +night. Helena remembered that here she and Siegmund had come for their +first walk together. She would like to come again. Presently she saw +the quick stilettos of stars on the small, baffled river; they ran +between high embankments. Siegmund recollected that these were covered +with roses of Sharon—the large golden St John’s wort of finest silk. He +looked, and could just distinguish the full-blown, delicate flowers, +ignored by the stars. At last he had something to say to Helena: + +“Do you remember,” he asked, “the roses of Sharon all along here?” + +“I do,” replied Helena, glad he spoke so brightly. “Weren’t they +pretty?” + +After a few moments of watching the bank, she said: + +“Do you know, I have never gathered one? I think I should like to; I +should like to feel them, and they should have an orangy smell.” + +He smiled, without answering. + +She glanced up at him, smiling brightly. + +“But shall we come down here in the morning, and find some?” she asked. +She put the question timidly. “Would you care to?” she added. + +Siegmund darkened and frowned. Here was the pain revived again. + +“No,” he said gently; “I think we had better not.” Almost for the first +time he did not make apologetic explanation. + +Helena turned to the window, and remained, looking out at the spinning +of the lights of the towns without speaking, until they were near +Sutton. Then she rose and pinned on her hat, gathering her gloves and +her basket. She was, in spite of herself, slightly angry. Being quite +ready to leave the train, she sat down to wait for the station. +Siegmund was aware that she was displeased, and again, for the first +time, he said to himself, “Ah, well, it must be so.” + +She looked at him. He was sad, therefore she softened instantly. + +“At least,” she said doubtfully, “I shall see you at the station.” + +“At Waterloo?” he asked. + +“No, at Wimbledon,” she replied, in her metallic tone. + +“But—” he began. + +“It will be the best way for us,” she interrupted, in the calm tone of +conviction. “Much better than crossing London from Victoria to +Waterloo.” + +“Very well,” he replied. + +He looked up a train for her in his little time-table. + +“You will get in Wimbledon 10.5—leave 10.40—leave Waterloo 11.30,” he +said. + +“Very good,” she answered. + +The brakes were grinding. They waited in a burning suspense for the +train to stop. + +“If only she will soon go!” thought Siegmund. It was an intolerable +minute. She rose; everything was a red blur. She stood before him, +pressing his hand; then he rose to give her the bag. As he leaned upon +the window-frame and she stood below on the platform, looking up at +him, he could scarcely breathe. “How long will it be?” he said to +himself, looking at the open carriage doors. He hated intensely the +lady who could not get a porter to remove her luggage; he could have +killed her; he could have killed the dilatory guard. At last the doors +slammed and the whistle went. The train started imperceptibly into +motion. + +“Now I lose her,” said Siegmund. + +She looked up at him; her face was white and dismal. + +“Good-bye, then!” she said, and she turned away. + +Siegmund went back to his seat. He was relieved, but he trembled with +sickness. We are all glad when intense moments are done with; but why +did she fling round in that manner, stopping the keen note short; what +would she do? + + + + +XXII + + +Siegmund went up to Victoria. He was in no hurry to get down to +Wimbledon. London was warm and exhausted after the hot day, but this +peculiar lukewarmness was not unpleasant to him. He chose to walk from +Victoria to Waterloo. + +The streets were like polished gun-metal glistened over with gold. The +taxi-cabs, the wild cats of the town, swept over the gleaming floor +swiftly, soon lessening in the distance, as if scornful of the other +clumsy-footed traffic. He heard the merry click-clock of the swinging +hansoms, then the excited whirring of the motor-buses as they charged +full-tilt heavily down the road, their hearts, as it seemed, beating +with trepidation; they drew up with a sigh of relief by the kerb, and +stood there panting—great, nervous, clumsy things. Siegmund was always +amused by the headlong, floundering career of the buses. He was pleased +with this scampering of the traffic; anything for distraction. He was +glad Helena was not with him, for the streets would have irritated her +with their coarse noise. She would stand for a long time to watch the +rabbits pop and hobble along on the common at night; but the tearing +along of the taxis and the charge of a great motor-bus was painful to +her. “Discords,” she said, “after the trees and sea.” She liked the +glistening of the streets; it seemed a fine alloy of gold laid down for +pavement, such pavement as drew near to the pure gold streets of +Heaven; but this noise could not be endured near any wonderland. + +Siegmund did not mind it; it drummed out his own thoughts. He watched +the gleaming magic of the road, raced over with shadows, project itself +far before him into the night. He watched the people. Soldiers, belted +with scarlet, went jauntily on in front. There was a peculiar charm in +their movement. There was a soft vividness of life in their carriage; +it reminded Siegmund of the soft swaying and lapping of a poised +candle-flame. The women went blithely alongside. Occasionally, in +passing, one glanced at him; then, in spite of himself, he smiled; he +knew not why. The women glanced at him with approval, for he was ruddy; +besides, he had that carelessness and abstraction of despair. The eyes +of the women said, “You are comely, you are lovable,” and Siegmund +smiled. + +When the street opened, at Westminster, he noticed the city sky, a +lovely deep purple, and the lamps in the square steaming out a vapour +of grey-gold light. + +“It is a wonderful night,” he said to himself. “There are not two such +in a year.” + +He went forward to the Embankment, with a feeling of elation in his +heart. This purple and gold-grey world, with the fluttering +flame-warmth of soldiers and the quick brightness of women, like lights +that clip sharply in a draught, was a revelation to him. + +As he leaned upon the Embankment parapet the wonder did not fade, but +rather increased. The trams, one after another, floated loftily over +the bridge. They went like great burning bees in an endless file into a +hive, past those which were drifting dreamily out, while below, on the +black, distorted water, golden serpents flashed and twisted to and fro. + +“Ah!” said Siegmund to himself; “it is far too wonderful for me. Here, +as well as by the sea, the night is gorgeous and uncouth. Whatever +happens, the world is wonderful.” + +So he went on amid all the vast miracle of movement in the city night, +the swirling of water to the sea, the gradual sweep of the stars, the +floating of many lofty, luminous cars through the bridged darkness, +like an army of angels filing past on one of God’s campaigns, the +purring haste of the taxis, the slightly dancing shadows of people. +Siegmund went on slowly, like a slow bullet winging into the heart of +life. He did not lose this sense of wonder, not in the train, nor as he +walked home in the moonless dark. + +When he closed the door behind him and hung up his hat he frowned. He +did not think definitely of anything, but his frown meant to him: “Now +for the beginning of Hell!” + +He went towards the dining-room, where the light was, and the uneasy +murmur. The clock, with its deprecating, suave chime, was striking ten, +Siegmund opened the door of the room. Beatrice was sewing, and did not +raise her head. Frank, a tall, thin lad of eighteen, was bent over a +book. He did not look up. Vera had her fingers thrust in among her +hair, and continued to read the magazine that lay on the table before +her. Siegmund looked at them all. They gave no sign to show they were +aware of his entry; there was only that unnatural tenseness of people +who cover their agitation. He glanced round to see where he should go. +His wicker arm-chair remained by the fireplace; his slippers were +standing under the sideboard, as he had left them. Siegmund sat down in +the creaking chair; he began to feel sick and tired. + +“I suppose the children are in bed,” he said. + +His wife sewed on as if she had not heard him; his daughter noisily +turned over a leaf and continued to read, as if she were pleasantly +interested and had known no interruption. Siegmund waited, with his +slipper dangling from his hand, looking from one to another. + +“They’ve been gone two hours,” said Frank at last, still without +raising his eyes from his book. His tone was contemptuous, his voice +was jarring, not yet having developed a man’s fullness. + +Siegmund put on his slipper, and began to unlace the other boot. The +slurring of the lace through the holes and the snacking of the tag +seemed unnecessarily loud. It annoyed his wife. She took a breath to +speak, then refrained, feeling suddenly her daughter’s scornful +restraint upon her. Siegmund rested his arms upon his knees, and sat +leaning forward, looking into the barren fireplace, which was littered +with paper, and orange-peel, and a banana-skin. + +“Do you want any supper?” asked Beatrice, and the sudden harshness of +her voice startled him into looking at her. + +She had her face averted, refusing to see him. Siegmund’s heart went +down with weariness and despair at the sight of her. + +“Aren’t _you_ having any?” he asked. + +The table was not laid. Beatrice’s work-basket, a little wicker +fruit-skep, overflowed scissors, and pins, and scraps of holland, and +reels of cotton on the green serge cloth. Vera leaned both her elbows +on the table. + +Instead of replying to him, Beatrice went to the sideboard. She took +out a table-cloth, pushing her sewing litter aside, and spread the +cloth over one end of the table. Vera gave her magazine a little knock +with her hand. + +“Have you read this tale of a French convent school in here, Mother?” +she asked. + +“In where?” + +In this month’s _Nash’s_.” + +“No,” replied Beatrice. “What time have I for reading, much less for +anything else?” + +“You should think more of yourself, and a little less of other people, +then,” said Vera, with a sneer at the “other people”. She rose. “Let me +do this. You sit down; you are tired, Mother,” she said. + +Her mother, without replying, went out to the kitchen. Vera followed +her. Frank, left alone with his father, moved uneasily, and bent his +thin shoulders lower over his book. Siegmund remained with his arms on +his knees, looking into the grate. From the kitchen came the chinking +of crockery, and soon the smell of coffee. All the time Vera was heard +chatting with affected brightness to her mother, addressing her in fond +tones, using all her wits to recall bright little incidents to retail +to her. Beatrice answered rarely, and then with utmost brevity. + +Presently Vera came in with the tray. She put down a cup of coffee, a +plate with boiled ham, pink and thin, such as is bought from a grocer, +and some bread-and-butter. Then she sat down, noisily turning over the +leaves of her magazine. Frank glanced at the table; it was laid solely +for his father. He looked at the bread and the meat, but restrained +himself, and went on reading, or pretended to do so. Beatrice came in +with the small cruet; it was conspicuously bright. + +Everything was correct: knife and fork, spoon, cruet, all perfectly +clean, the crockery fine, the bread and butter thin—in fact, it was +just as it would have been for a perfect stranger. This scrupulous +neatness, in a household so slovenly and easy-going, where it was an +established tradition that something should be forgotten or wrong, +impressed Siegmund. Beatrice put the serving knife and fork by the +little dish of ham, saw that all was proper, then went and sat down. +Her face showed no emotion; it was calm and proud. She began to sew. + +“What do you say, Mother?” said Vera, as if resuming a conversation. +“Shall it be Hampton Court or Richmond on Sunday?” + +“I say, as I said before,” replied Beatrice: “I cannot afford to go +out.” + +“But you must begin, my dear, and Sunday shall see the beginning. +_Dîtes donc_!” + +“There are other things to think of,” said Beatrice. + +“Now, _maman, nous avons changé tout cela_! We are going out—a jolly +little razzle!” Vera, who was rather handsome, lifted up her face and +smiled at her mother gaily. + +“I am afraid there will be no _razzle_”—Beatrice accented the word, +smiling slightly—“for me. You are slangy, Vera.” + +“_Un doux argot, ma mère_. You look tired.” + +Beatrice glanced at the clock. + +“I will go to bed when I have cleared the table,” she said. + +Siegmund winced. He was still sitting with his head bent down, looking +in the grate. Vera went on to say something more. Presently Frank +looked up at the table, and remarked in his grating voice: + +“There’s your supper, Father.” + +The women stopped and looked round at this. Siegmund bent his head +lower. Vera resumed her talk. It died out, and there was silence. + +Siegmund was hungry. + +“Oh, good Lord, good Lord! bread of humiliation tonight!” he said to +himself before he could muster courage to rise and go to the table. He +seemed to be shrinking inwards. The women glanced swiftly at him and +away from him as his chair creaked and he got up. Frank was watching +from under his eyebrows. + +Siegmund went through the ordeal of eating and drinking in presence of +his family. If he had not been hungry, he could not have done it, +despite the fact that he was content to receive humiliation this night. +He swallowed the coffee with effort. When he had finished he sat +irresolute for some time; then he arose and went to the door. + +“Good night!” he said. + +Nobody made any reply. Frank merely stirred in his chair. Siegmund shut +the door and went. + +There was absolute silence in the room till they heard him turn on the +tap in the bathroom; then Beatrice began to breathe spasmodically, +catching her breath as if she would sob. But she restrained herself. +The faces of the two children set hard with hate. + +“He is not worth the flicking of your little finger, Mother,” said +Vera. + +Beatrice moved about with pitiful, groping hands, collecting her sewing +and her cottons. + +“At any rate, he’s come back red enough,” said Frank, in his grating +tone of contempt. “He’s like boiled salmon.” + +Beatrice did not answer anything. Frank rose, and stood with his back +to the grate, in his father’s characteristic attitude. + +“He _would_ come slinking back in a funk!” he said, with a young man’s +sneer. + +Stretching forward, he put a piece of ham between two pieces of bread, +and began to eat the sandwich in large bites. Vera came to the table at +this, and began to make herself a more dainty sandwich. Frank watched +her with jealous eyes. + +“There is a little more ham, if you’d like it,” said Beatrice to him. +“I kept you some.” + +“All right, Ma,” he replied. Fetch it in.” + +Beatrice went out to the kitchen. + +“And bring the bread and butter, too, will you?” called Vera after her. + +“The damned coward! Ain’t he a rotten funker?” said Frank, _sotto +voce_, while his mother was out of the room. + +Vera did not reply, but she seemed tacitly to agree. + +They petted their mother, while she waited on them. At length Frank +yawned. He fidgeted a moment or two, then he went over to his mother, +and, putting his hand on her arm—the feel of his mother’s round arm +under the black silk sleeve made his tears rise—he said, more gratingly +than ever: + +“Ne’er mind, Ma; we’ll be all right to you.” Then he bent and kissed +her. “Good night, Mother,” he said awkwardly, and he went out of the +room. + +Beatrice was crying. + + + + +XXIII + + +“I shall never re-establish myself,” said Siegmund as he closed behind +him the dining-room door and went upstairs in the dark. “I am a family +criminal. Beatrice might come round, but the children’s insolent +judgement is too much. And I am like a dog that creeps round the house +from which it escaped with joy. I have nowhere else to go. Why did I +come back? But I am sleepy. I will not bother tonight.” + +He went into the bathroom and washed himself. Everything he did gave +him a grateful sense of pleasure, notwithstanding the misery of his +position. He dipped his arms deeper into the cold water, that he might +feel the delight of it a little farther. His neck he swilled time after +time, and it seemed to him he laughed with pleasure as the water caught +him and fell away. The towel reminded him how sore were his forehead +and his neck, blistered both to a state of rawness by the sun. He +touched them very cautiously to dry them, wincing, and smiling at his +own childish touch-and-shrink. + +Though his bedroom was very dark, he did not light the gas. Instead, he +stepped out into the small balcony. His shirt was open at the neck and +wrists. He pulled it farther apart, baring his chest to the deliciously +soft night. He stood looking out at the darkness for some time. The +night was as yet moonless, but luminous with a certain atmosphere of +light. The stars were small. Near at hand, large shapes of trees rose +up. Farther, lamps like little mushroom groups shone amid an +undergrowth of darkness. There was a vague hoarse noise filling the +sky, like the whispering in a shell, and this breathing of the summer +night occasionally swelled into a restless sigh as a train roared +across the distance. + +“What a big night!” thought Siegmund. “The night gathers everything +into a oneness. I wonder what is in it.” + +He leaned forward over the balcony, trying to catch something out of +the night. He felt his soul like tendrils stretched out anxiously to +grasp a hold. What could he hold to in this great, hoarse breathing +night? A star fell. It seemed to burst into sight just across his eyes +with a yellow flash. He looked up, unable to make up his mind whether +he had seen it or not. There was no gap in the sky. + +“It is a good sign—a shooting star,” he said to himself. “It is a good +sign for me. I know I am right. That was my sign.” + +Having assured himself, he stepped indoors, unpacked his bag, and was +soon in bed. + +“This is a good bed,” he said. “And the sheets are very fresh.” + +He lay for a little while with his head bending forwards, looking from +his pillow out at the stars, then he went to sleep. + +At half past six in the morning he suddenly opened his eyes. + +“What is it?” he asked, and almost without interruption answered: +“Well, I’ve got to go through it.” + +His sleep had shaped him perfect premonition, which, like a dream, he +forgot when he awoke. Only this naïve question and answer betrayed what +had taken place in his sleep. Immediately he awoke this subordinate +knowledge vanished. + +Another fine day was striding in triumphant. The first thing Siegmund +did was to salute the morning, because of its brightness. The second +thing was to call to mind the aspect of that bay in the Isle of Wight. +“What would it just be like now?” said he to himself. He had to give +his heart some justification for the peculiar pain left in it from his +sleep activity, so he began poignantly to long for the place which had +been his during the last mornings. He pictured the garden with roses +and nasturtiums; he remembered the sunny way down the shore, and all +the expanse of sea hung softly between the tall white cliffs. + +“It is impossible it is gone!” he cried to himself. “It can’t be gone. +I looked forward to it as if it never would come. It can’t be gone now. +Helena is not lost to me, surely.” Then he began a long pining for the +departed beauty of his life. He turned the jewel of memory, and facet +by facet it wounded him with its brilliant loveliness. This pain, +though it was keen, was half pleasure. + +Presently he heard his wife stirring. She opened the door of the room +next to his, and he heard her: + +“Frank, it’s a quarter to eight. You _will_ be late.” + +“All right, Mother. Why didn’t you call me sooner?” grumbled the lad. + +“I didn’t wake myself. I didn’t go to sleep till morning, and then I +slept.” + +She went downstairs. Siegmund listened for his son to get out of bed. +The minutes passed. + +“The young donkey, why doesn’t he get out?” said Siegmund angrily to +himself. He turned over, pressing himself upon the bed in anger and +humiliation, because now he had no authority to call to his son and +keep him to his duty. Siegmund waited, writhing with anger, shame, and +anxiety. When the suave, velvety “Pan-n-n! pan-n-n-n!” of the clock was +heard striking, Frank stepped with a thud on to the floor. He could be +heard dressing in clumsy haste. Beatrice called from the bottom of the +stairs: + +“Do you want any hot water?” + +“You know there isn’t time for me to shave now,” answered her son, +lifting his voice to a kind of broken falsetto. + +The scent of the cooking of bacon filled the house. Siegmund heard his +second daughter, Marjory, aged nine, talking to Vera, who occupied the +same room with her. The child was evidently questioning, and the elder +girl answered briefly. There was a lull in the household noises, broken +suddenly by Marjory, shouting from the top of the stairs: + +“Mam!” She wailed. “Mam!” Still Beatrice did not hear her. “Mam! +Mamma!” Beatrice was in the scullery. “Mamma-a!” The child was getting +impatient. She lifted her voice and shouted: “Mam? Mamma!” Still no +answer. “Mam-mee-e!” she squealed. + +Siegmund could hardly contain himself. + +“Why don’t you go down and ask?” Vera called crossly from the bedroom. + +And at the same moment Beatrice answered, also crossly: “What do you +want?” + +“Where’s my stockings?” cried the child at the top of her voice. + +“Why do you ask me? Are they down here?” replied her mother. “What are +you shouting for?” + +The child plodded downstairs. Directly she returned, and as she passed +into Vera’s room, she grumbled: “And now they’re not mended.” + +Siegmund heard a sound that made his heart beat. It was the crackling +of the sides of the crib, as Gwen, his little girl of five, climbed +out. She was silent for a space. He imagined her sitting on the white +rug and pulling on her stockings. Then there came the quick little thud +of her feet as she went downstairs. + +“Mam,” Siegmund heard her say as she went down the hall, “has dad +come?” + +The answer and the child’s further talk were lost in the distance of +the kitchen. The small, anxious question, and the quick thudding of +Gwen’s feet, made Siegmund lie still with torture. He wanted to hear no +more. He lay shrinking within himself. It seemed that his soul was +sensitive to madness. He felt that he could not, come what might, get +up and meet them all. + +The front door banged, and he heard Frank’s hasty call: “Good-bye!” +Evidently the lad was in an ill-humour. Siegmund listened for the sound +of the train; it seemed an age; the boy would catch it. Then the water +from the wash-hand bowl in the bathroom ran loudly out. That, he +suggested, was Vera, who was evidently not going up to town. At the +thought of this, Siegmund almost hated her. He listened for her to go +downstairs. It was nine o’clock. + +The footsteps of Beatrice came upstairs. She put something down in the +bathroom—his hot water. Siegmund listened intently for her to come to +his door. Would she speak? She approached hurriedly, knocked, and +waited. Siegmund, startled, for the moment, could not answer. She +knocked loudly. + +“All right,” said he. + +Then she went downstairs. + +He lay probing and torturing himself for another half-hour, till Vera’s +voice said coldly, beneath his window outside: + +“You should clear away, then. We don’t want the breakfast things on the +table for a week.” + +Siegmund’s heart set hard. He rose, with a shut mouth, and went across +to the bathroom. There he started. The quaint figure of Gwen stood at +the bowl, her back was towards him; she was sponging her face gingerly. +Her hair, all blowsed from the pillow, was tied in a stiff little +pigtail, standing out from her slender, childish neck. Her arms were +bare to the shoulder. She wore a bodiced petticoat of pink flannelette, +which hardly reached her knees. Siegmund felt slightly amused to see +her stout little calves planted so firmly close together. She carefully +sponged her cheeks, her pursed-up mouth, and her neck, soaping her +hair, but not her ears. Then, very deliberately, she squeezed out the +sponge and proceeded to wipe away the soap. + +For some reason or other she glanced round. Her startled eyes met his. +She, too, had beautiful dark blue eyes. She stood, with the sponge at +her neck, looking full at him. Siegmund felt himself shrinking. The +child’s look was steady, calm, inscrutable. + +“Hello!” said her father. “Are you here!” + +The child, without altering her expression in the slightest, turned her +back on him, and continued wiping her neck. She dropped the sponge in +the water and took the towel from off the side of the bath. Then she +turned to look again at Siegmund, who stood in his pyjamas before her, +his mouth shut hard, but his eyes shrinking and tender. She seemed to +be trying to discover something in him. + +“Have you washed your ears?” he said gaily. + +She paid no heed to this, except that he noticed her face now wore a +slight constrained smile as she looked at him. She was shy. Still she +continued to regard him curiously. + +“There is some chocolate on my dressing-table,” he said. + +“Where have you been to?” she asked suddenly. + +“To the seaside,” he answered, smiling. + +“To Brighton?” she asked. Her tone was still condemning. + +“Much farther than that,” he replied. + +“To Worthing?” she asked. + +“Farther—in a steamer,” he replied. + +“But who did you go with?” asked the child. + +“Why, I went all by myself,” he answered. + +“Twuly?” she asked. + +“Weally and twuly,” he answered, laughing. + +“Couldn’t you take me?” she asked. + +“I will next time,” he replied. + +The child still looked at him, unsatisfied. + +“But what did you go for?” she asked, goading him suspiciously. + +“To see the sea and the ships and the fighting ships with cannons—” + +“You _might_ have taken me,” said the child reproachfully. + +“Yes, I ought to have done, oughtn’t I?” he said, as if regretful. + +Gwen still looked full at him. + +“You _are_ red,” she said. + +He glanced quickly in the glass, and replied: + +“That is the sun. Hasn’t it been hot?” + +“Mm! It made my nose all peel. Vera said she would scrape me like a new +potato.” The child laughed and turned shyly away. + +“Come here,” said Siegmund. “I believe you’ve got a tooth out, haven’t +you?” + +He was very cautious and gentle. The child drew back. He hesitated, and +she drew away from him, unwilling. + +“Come and let me look,” he repeated. + +She drew farther away, and the same constrained smile appeared on her +face, shy, suspicious, condemning. + +“Aren’t you going to get your chocolate?” he asked, as the child +hesitated in the doorway. + +She glanced into his room, and answered: + +“I’ve got to go to mam and have my hair done.” + +Her awkwardness and her lack of compliance insulted him. She went +downstairs without going into his room. + +Siegmund, rebuffed by the only one in the house from whom he might have +expected friendship, proceeded slowly to shave, feeling sick at heart. +He was a long time over his toilet. When he stripped himself for the +bath, it seemed to him he could smell the sea. He bent his head and +licked his shoulder. It tasted decidedly salt. + +“A pity to wash it off,” he said. + +As he got up dripping from the cold bath, he felt for the moment +exhilarated. He rubbed himself smooth. Glancing down at himself, he +thought: “I look young. I look as young as twenty-six.” + +He turned to the mirror. There he saw himself a mature, complete man of +forty, with grave years of experience on his countenance. + +“I used to think that, when I was forty,” he said to himself, “I should +find everything straight as the nose on my face, walking through my +affairs as easily as you like. Now I am no more sure of myself, have no +more confidence than a boy of twenty. What can I do? It seems to me a +man needs a mother all his life. I don’t feel much like a lord of +creation.” + +Having arrived at this cynicism, Siegmund prepared to go downstairs. +His sensitiveness had passed off; his nerves had become callous. When +he was dressed he went down to the kitchen without hesitation. He was +indifferent to his wife and children. No one spoke to him as he sat to +the table. That was as he liked it; he wished for nothing to touch him. +He ate his breakfast alone, while his wife bustled about upstairs and +Vera bustled about in the dining-room. Then he retired to the solitude +of the drawing-room. As a reaction against his poetic activity, he felt +as if he were gradually becoming more stupid and blind. He remarked +nothing, not even the extravagant bowl of grasses placed where he would +not have allowed it—on his piano; nor his fiddle, laid cruelly on the +cold, polished floor near the window. He merely sat down in an +arm-chair, and felt sick. + +All his unnatural excitement, all the poetic stimulation of the past +few days, had vanished. He felt flaccid, while his life struggled +slowly through him. After an intoxication of passion and love, and +beauty, and of sunshine, he was prostrate. Like a plant that blossoms +gorgeously and madly, he had wasted the tissue of his strength, so that +now his life struggled in a clogged and broken channel. + +Siegmund sat with his head between his hands, leaning upon the table. +He would have been stupidly quiescent in his feeling of loathing and +sickness had not an intense irritability in all his nerves tormented +him into consciousness. + +“I suppose this is the result of the sun—a sort of sunstroke,” he said, +realizing an intolerable stiffness of his brain, a stunned condition in +his head. + +“This is hideous!” he said. His arms were quivering with intense +irritation. He exerted all his will to stop them, and then the hot +irritability commenced in his belly. Siegmund fidgeted in his chair +without changing his position. He had not the energy to get up and move +about. He fidgeted like an insect pinned down. + +The door opened. He felt violently startled; yet there was no movement +perceptible. Vera entered, ostensibly for an autograph-album into which +she was going to copy a drawing from the _London Opinion_, really to +see what her father was doing. He did not move a muscle. He only longed +intensely for his daughter to go out of the room, so that he could let +go. Vera went out of the drawing-room humming to herself. Apparently +she had not even glanced at her father. In reality, she had observed +him closely. + +“He is sitting with his head in his hands,” she said to her mother. + +Beatrice replied: “I’m glad he’s nothing else to do.” + +“I should think he’s pitying himself,” said Vera. + +“He’s a good one at it,” answered Beatrice. + +Gwen came forward and took hold of her mother’s skirt, looking up +anxiously. + +“What is he doing, Mam?” she asked. + +“Nothing,” replied her mother—“nothing; only sitting in the +drawing-room.” + +“But what has he _been_ doing?” persisted the anxious child. + +“Nothing—nothing that I can tell _you_. He’s only spoilt all our +lives.” + +The little girl stood regarding her mother In the greatest distress and +perplexity. + +“But what will he do, Mam?” she asked. + +“Nothing. Don’t bother. Run and play with Marjory now. Do you want a +nice plum?” + +She took a yellow plum from the table. Gwen accepted it without a word. +She was too much perplexed. + +“What do you say?” asked her mother. + +“Thank you,” replied the child, turning away. + +Siegmund sighed with relief when he was again left alone. He twisted in +his chair, and sighed again, trying to drive out the intolerable +clawing irritability from his belly. + +“Ah, this is horrible!” he said. + +He stiffened his muscles to quieten them. + +“I’ve never been like this before. What is the matter?” he asked +himself. + +But the question died out immediately. It seemed useless and sickening +to try and answer it. He began to cast about for an alleviation. If he +could only do something, or have something he wanted, it would be +better. + +“What do I want?” he asked himself, and he anxiously strove to find +this out. + +Everything he suggested to himself made him sicken with weariness or +distaste: the seaside, a foreign land, a fresh life that he had often +dreamed of, farming in Canada. + +“I should be just the same there,” he answered himself. “Just the same +sickening feeling there that I want nothing.” + +“Helena!” he suggested to himself, trembling. + +But he only felt a deeper horror. The thought of her made him shrink +convulsively. + +“I can’t endure this,” he said. If this is the case, I had better be +dead. To have no want, no desire—that is death, to begin with.” + +He rested awhile after this. The idea of death alone seemed +entertaining. Then, “Is there really nothing I could turn to?” he asked +himself. + +To him, in that state of soul, it seemed there was not. + +“Helena!” he suggested again, appealingly testing himself. “Ah, no!” he +cried, drawing sharply back, as from an approaching touch upon a raw +place. + +He groaned slightly as he breathed, with a horrid weight of nausea. +There was a fumbling upon the door-knob. Siegmund did not start. He +merely pulled himself together. Gwen pushed open the door, and stood +holding on to the door-knob looking at him. + +“Dad, Mam says dinner’s ready,” she announced. + +Siegmund did not reply. The child waited, at a loss for some moments, +before she repeated, in a hesitating tone: + +“Dinner’s ready.” + +“All right,” said Siegmund. “Go away.” + +The little girl returned to the kitchen with tears in her eyes, very +crestfallen. + +“What did he say?” asked Beatrice. + +“He shouted at me,” replied the little one, breaking into tears. + +Beatrice flushed. Tears came into her own eyes. She took the child in +her arms and pressed her to her, kissing her forehead. + +“Did he?” she said very tenderly. “Never mind, then, dearie—never +mind.” + +The tears in her mother’s voice made the child sob bitterly. Vera and +Marjory sat silent at table. The steak and mashed potatoes steamed and +grew cold. + + + + +XXIV + + +When Helena arrived home on the Thursday evening she found everything +repulsive. All the odours of the sordid street through which she must +pass hung about the pavement, having crept out in the heat. The house +was bare and narrow. She remembered children sometimes to have brought +her moths shut up in matchboxes. As she knocked at the door she felt +like a numbed moth which a boy is pushing off its leaf-rest into his +box. + +The door was opened by her mother. She was a woman whose sunken mouth, +ruddy cheeks, and quick brown eyes gave her the appearance of a bird +which walks about pecking suddenly here and there. As Helena +reluctantly entered the mother drew herself up, and immediately +relaxed, seeming to peck forwards as she said: + +“Well?” + +“Well, here we are!” replied the daughter in a matter-of-fact tone. + +Her mother was inclined to be affectionate, therefore she became +proportionately cold. + +“So I see,” exclaimed Mrs Verden, tossing her head in a peculiar +jocular manner. “And what sort of a time have you had?” + +“Oh, very good,” replied Helena, still more coolly. + +“H’m!” + +Mrs Verden looked keenly at her daughter. She recognized the peculiar +sulky, childish look she knew so well, therefore, making an effort, she +forbore to question. + +“You look well,” she said. + +Helena smiled ironically. + +“And are you ready for your supper?” she asked, in the playful, +affectionate manner she had assumed. + +“If the supper is ready I will have it,” replied her daughter. + +“Well, it’s not ready.” The mother shut tight her sunken mouth, and +regarded her daughter with playful challenge. “Because,” she continued, +“I didn’t known when you were coming.” She gave a jerk with her arm, +like an orator who utters the incontrovertible. “But,” she added, after +a tedious dramatic pause, “I can soon have it ready. What will you +have?” + +“The full list of your capacious larder,” replied Helena. + +Mrs Verden looked at her again, and hesitated. + +“Will you have cocoa or lemonade?” she asked, coming to the point +curtly. + +“Lemonade,” said Helena. + +Presently Mr Verden entered—a small, white-bearded man with a gentle +voice. + +“Oh, so you are back, Nellie!” he said, in his quiet, reserved manner. + +“As you see, Pater,” she answered. + +“H’m!” he murmured, and he moved about at his accounts. + +Neither of her parents dared to question Helena. They moved about her +on tiptoe, stealthily. Yet neither subserved her. Her father’s quiet +“H’m!” her mother’s curt question, made her draw inwards like a snail +which can never retreat far enough from condemning eyes. She made a +careless pretence of eating. She was like a child which has done wrong, +and will not be punished, but will be left with the humiliating smear +of offence upon it. + +There was a quick, light palpitating of the knocker. Mrs Verden went to +the door. + +“Has she come?” + +And there were hasty steps along the passage. Louisa entered. She flung +herself upon Helena and kissed her. + +“How long have you been in?” she asked, in a voice trembling with +affection. + +“Ten minutes,” replied Helena. + +“Why didn’t you send me the time of the train, so that I could come and +meet you?” Louisa reproached her. + +“Why?” drawled Helena. + +Louisa looked at her friend without speaking. She was deeply hurt by +this sarcasm. + +As soon as possible Helena went upstairs. Louisa stayed with her that +night. On the next day they were going to Cornwall together for their +usual midsummer holiday. They were to be accompanied by a third girl—a +minor friend of Louisa, a slight acquaintance of Helena. + +During the night neither of the two friends slept much. Helena made +confidences to Louisa, who brooded on these, on the romance and tragedy +which enveloped the girl she loved so dearly. Meanwhile, Helena’s +thoughts went round and round, tethered amid the five days by the sea, +pulling forwards as far as the morrow’s meeting with Siegmund, but +reaching no further. + +Friday was an intolerable day of silence, broken by little tender +advances and playful, affectionate sallies on the part of the mother, +all of which were rapidly repulsed. The father said nothing, and +avoided his daughter with his eyes. In his humble reserve there was a +dignity which made his disapproval far more difficult to bear than the +repeated flagrant questionings of the mother’s eyes. But the day wore +on. Helena pretended to read, and sat thinking. She played her violin a +little, mechanically. She went out into the town, and wandered about. + +At last the night fell. + +“Well,” said Helena to her mother, “I suppose I’d better pack.” + +“Haven’t you done it?” cried Mrs Verden, exaggerating her surprise. +“You’ll never have it done. I’d better help you. What times does the +train go?” + +Helena smiled. + +“Ten minutes to ten.” + +Her mother glanced at the clock. It was only half-past eight. There was +ample time for everything. + +“Nevertheless, you’d better look sharp,” Mrs Verden said. + +Helena turned away, weary of this exaggeration. + +“I’ll come with you to the station,” suggested Mrs Verden. “I’ll see +the last of you. We shan’t see much of you just now.” + +Helena turned round in surprise. + +“Oh, I wouldn’t bother,” she said, fearing to make her disapproval too +evident. + +“Yes—I will—I’ll see you off.” + +Mrs Verden’s animation and indulgence were remarkable. Usually she was +curt and undemonstrative. On occasions like these, however, when she +was reminded of the ideal relations between mother and daughter, she +played the part of the affectionate parent, much to the general +distress. + +Helena lit a candle and went to her bedroom. She quickly packed her +dress-basket. As she stood before the mirror to put on her hat, her +eyes, gazing heavily, met her heavy eyes in the mirror. She glanced +away swiftly as if she had been burned. + +“How stupid I look!” she said to herself. “And Siegmund, how is he, I +wonder?” + +She wondered how Siegmund had passed the day, what had happened to him, +how he felt, how he looked. She thought of him protectively. + +Having strapped her basket, she carried it downstairs. Her mother was +ready, with a white lace scarf round her neck. After a short time +Louisa came in. She dropped her basket in the passage, and then sank +into a chair. + +“I don’t want to go, Nell,” she said, after a few moments of silence. + +“Why, how is that?” asked Helena, not surprised, but condescending, as +to a child. + +“Oh, I don’t know; I’m tired,” said the other petulantly. + +“Of course you are. What do you expect, after a day like this?” said +Helena. + +“And rushing about packing,” exclaimed Mrs Verden, still in an +exaggerated manner, this time scolding playfully. + +“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think I want to go, dear,” repeated Louisa +dejectedly. + +“Well, it is time we set out,” replied Helena, rising. “Will you carry +the basket or the violin, Mater?” + +Louisa rose, and with a forlorn expression took up her light luggage. + +The west opposite the door was smouldering with sunset. Darkness is +only smoke that hangs suffocatingly over the low red heat of the sunken +day. Such was Helena’s longed-for night. The tramcar was crowded. In +one corner Olive, the third friend, rose excitedly to greet them. +Helena sat mute, while the car swung through the yellow, stale lights +of a third-rate street of shops. She heard Olive remarking on her +sunburned face and arms; she became aware of the renewed inflammation +in her blistered arms; she heard her own curious voice answering. +Everything was in a maze. To the beat of the car, while the yellow blur +of the shops passed over her eyes, she repeated: “Two hundred and forty +miles—two hundred and forty miles.” + + + + +XXV + + +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 of angry hysteria. + +“When does your engagement at the Comedy Theatre commence?” she had +asked 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 +anger flashed out like sudden lightning at his “if ever”. + +“What do you think you _can_ do?” she cried. “For I think you have done +enough. We can’t do as we like altogether—indeed, indeed we cannot. You +have had your fling, haven’t you? You have had your fling, and you want +to keep on. But there’s more than one person in the world. Remember +that. But there are your children, let me remind you. Whose are they? +You talk about shirking the engagement, but who is going to be +responsible for your children, do you think?” + +“I said nothing about shirking the engagement,” replied Siegmund, very +coldly. + +“No, there was no need to say. I know what it means. You sit there +sulking all day. What do you think _I_ do? I have to see to the +children, 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, I +wouldn’t be such a coward, you know that. You know _I_ wouldn’t leave +little children—to the workhouse or anything. They’re my children; they +mightn’t be yours.” + +“There is no need for this,” said Siegmund contemptuously. + +The pressure in his temples was excruciating, and he felt loathsomely +sick. + +Beatrice’s dark eyes flashed with rage. + +“Isn’t there!” she cried. “Oh, isn’t there? No, there is need for a +great deal more. I don’t know what you think I am. How much farther do +you think you can go? No, you don’t like reminding of us. You sit +moping, sulking, because you have to come back to your own children. I +wonder how much you think I shall stand? What do you think I am, to put +up with it? What do you think I am? Am I a servant to eat out of your +hand?” + +“Be quiet!” shouted Siegmund. “Don’t I know what you are? Listen to +yourself!” + +Beatrice was suddenly silenced. It was the stillness of white-hot +wrath. Even Siegmund was glad to hear her voice again. She spoke low +and trembling. + +“You coward—you miserable coward! It is I, is it, who am wrong? It is I +who am to blame, is it? You miserable thing! I have no doubt you know +what I am.” + +Siegmund looked up at her as her words died off. She looked back at him +with dark eyes loathing his cowed, wretched animosity. His eyes were +bloodshot and furtive, his mouth was drawn back in a half-grin of hate +and misery. She was goading him, in his darkness whither he had +withdrawn himself like a sick dog, to die or recover as his strength +should prove. She tortured him till his sickness was swallowed by +anger, which glared redly at her as he pushed back his chair to rise. +He trembled too much, however. His chin dropped again on his chest. +Beatrice sat down in her place, hearing footsteps. She was shuddering +slightly, and her eyes were fixed. + +Vera entered with the two children. All three immediately, as if they +found 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 the +others had left the table. Evidently he had not finished, but he made +no reply, 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 licked +a sheep, Mam, what was hanging up.” + +Beatrice sat fixed, and paid not the slightest attention. The child +looked 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 was +taking the things from the table, snatching them, and thrusting them on +the tray. Gwen’s eyes rested a moment or two on the bent head of her +father; then deliberately she turned again to her mother, and repeated +in her softest and most persuasive tones: + +“Mam, I saw a dog, and it ran in a butcher’s shop and licked a piece of +meat. Mam, Mam!” + +There was no answer. Gwen went forward and put her hand on her mother’s +knee. + +“Mam!” she pleaded timidly. + +No response. + +“Mam!” she whispered. + +She was desperate. She stood on tiptoe, and pulled with little hands at +her mother’s breast. + +“Mam!” she whispered shrilly. + +Her mother, with an effort of self-denial, put off her investment of +tragedy, and, laying her arm round the child’s shoulders, drew her +close. Gwen was somewhat reassured, but not satisfied. With an earnest +face upturned to the impassive countenance of her mother, she began to +whisper, sibilant, coaxing, pleading. + +“Mam, there was a lady, she had a dog—” + +Vera turned sharply to stop this whispering, which was too much for her +nerves, but the mother forestalled her. Taking the child in her arms, +she averted her face, put her cheek against the baby cheek, and let the +tears run freely. Gwen was too much distressed to cry. The tears +gathered very slowly in her eyes, and fell without her having moved a +muscle in her face. Vera remained in the scullery, weeping tears of +rage, and pity, and shame into the towel. The only sound in the room +was the occasional sharp breathing of Beatrice. Siegmund sat without +the trace 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 the +scullery. There came the low sound of women’s talking—an angry, ominous +sound. Gwen followed her mother. Her little voice could be heard +cautiously asking: + +“Mam, is dad cross—is he? What did he do?” + +“Don’t bother!” snapped Vera. “You _are_ a little nuisance! Here, take +this 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 remained +unmoved. The child wished to go to him, to speak to him, but she was +afraid. She crossed the kitchen slowly, hugging the dish; then she came +slowly back, hesitating. She sidled into the kitchen; she crept round +the table inch by inch, drawing nearer her father. At about a yard from +the chair she stopped. He, from under his bent brows, could see her +small feet in brown slippers, nearly kicked through at the toes, +waiting and moving nervously near him. He pulled himself together, as a +man does who watches the surgeon’s lancet suspended over his wound. +Would the child speak to him? Would she touch him with her small hands? +He held his breath, and, it seemed, held his heart from beating. What +he should do he did not know. + +He waited in a daze of suspense. The child shifted from one foot to +another. He could just see the edge of her white-frilled drawers. He +wanted, above all things, to take her in his arms, to have something +against which to hide his face. Yet he was afraid. Often, when all the +world was hostile, he had found her full of love, he had hidden his +face against her, she had gone to sleep in his arms, she had been like +a piece of apple-blossom in his arms. If she should come to him now—his +heart halted again in suspense—he knew not what he would do. It would +open, perhaps, the tumour of his sickness. He was quivering too fast +with 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 returned +stronger, more horrible and wearying than ever. For a moment it was so +bad 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 +lay down on the bed. + +For two hours he lay in a dazed condition resembling sleep. At the end +of that time the knowledge that he had to meet Helena was actively at +work—an activity quite apart from his will or his consciousness, +jogging and pulling him awake. At eight o’clock he sat up. A cramped +pain in his thumbs made him wonder. He looked at them, and mechanically +shut them again under his fingers into the position they sought after +two hours of similar constraint. Siegmund opened his hands again, +smiling. + +“It is said to be the sign of a weak, deceitful character,” he said to +himself. + +His head was peculiarly numbed; at the back it felt heavy, as if +weighted with lead. He could think only one detached sentence at +intervals. Between-whiles there was a blank, grey sleep or swoon. + +“I have got to go and meet Helena at Wimbledon,” he said to himself, +and instantly he felt a peculiar joy, as if he had laughed somewhere. +“But I must 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 to +her, “Do not go away from me; come with me somewhere,” then he might +lie down somewhere beside her, and she might put her hands on his head. +If she could hold his head in her hands—for she had fine, silken hands +that adjusted themselves with a rare pressure, wrapping his weakness up +in life—then his head would gradually grow healed, and he could rest. +This was the one thing that remained for his restoration—that she +should with long, unwearying gentleness put him to rest. He longed for +it 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 was +time 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 the +good? 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 to +wash in cold water and bring back his senses. His hands were sore, and +his face blazed with sun inflammation. He made himself neat as usual. +It was ten minutes to ten. He would be very late. It was practically +dark, though these bright days were endless. He wondered whether the +children were in bed. It was too late, however, to wonder. + +Siegmund hurried downstairs and took his hat. He was walking down the +path when the door was snatched open behind him, and Vera ran out +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 very +long.” + +“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. + + + + +XXVI + + +Helena, Louisa, and Olive climbed the steps to go to the South-Western +platform. They were laden with dress-baskets, umbrellas, and little +packages. Olive and Louisa, at least, were in high spirits. Olive +stopped before the indicator. + +“The next train for Waterloo,” she announced, in her contralto voice, +“is 10.30. It is now 10.12.” + +“We go by the 10.40; it is a better train,” said Helena. + +Olive turned to her with a heavy-arch manner. + +“Very well, dear. There is a parting to be got through, I am told. We +sympathize, dear, but we regret it. Starting for a holiday is always a +prolonged agony. But I am strong to endure it.” + +“You look it. You look as if you could tackle a bull,” cried Louisa, +skittish. + +“My dear Louisa,” rang out Olive’s contralto, “don’t judge me by +appearances. You’re sure to be taken in. With me it’s a case of + +“‘Oh, the gladness of her gladness when she’s sad, +And the sadness of her sadness when she’s glad!’” + + +She looked round to see the effect of this. Helena, expected to say +something, chimed in sarcastically: + +“‘They are nothing to her madness—’” + +“When she’s going for a holiday, dear,” cried Olive. + +“Oh, go on being mad,” cried Louisa. + +“What, do you like it? I thought you’d be thanking Heaven that sanity +was given me in large doses.” + +“And holidays in small,” laughed Louisa. “Good! No, I like your +madness, if you call it such. You are always so serious.” + +“‘It’s ill talking of halters in the house of the hanged,’ dear,” +boomed Olive. + +She looked from side to side. She felt triumphant. Helena smiled, +acknowledging the sarcasm. + +“But,” said Louisa, smiling anxiously, “I don’t quite see it. What’s +the point?” + +“Well, to be explicit, dear,” replied Olive, “it is hardly safe to +accuse me of sadness and seriousness in _this_ trio.” + +Louisa laughed and shook herself. + +“Come to think of it, it isn’t,” she said. + +Helena sighed, and walked down the platform. Her heart was beating +thickly; she could hardly breathe. The station lamps hung low, so they +made a ceiling of heat and dusty light. She suffocated under them. For +a moment she beat with hysteria, feeling, as most of us feel when sick +on a hot summer night, as if she must certainly go crazed, smothered +under the grey, woolly blanket of heat. Siegmund was late. It was +already twenty-five minutes past ten. + +She went towards the booking-office. At that moment Siegmund came on to +the platform. + +“Here I am!” he said. “Where is Louisa?” + +Helena pointed to the seat without answering. She was looking at +Siegmund. He was distracted by the excitement of the moment, so she +could not read him. + +“Olive is there, too,” she explained. + +Siegmund stood still, straining his eyes to see the two women seated +amidst pale wicker dress-baskets and dark rugs. The stranger made +things more complex. + +“Does she—your other friend—does she know?” he asked. + +“She knows nothing,” replied Helena in a low tone, as she led him +forward to be introduced. + +“How do you do?” replied Olive in most mellow contralto. “Behold the +dauntless three, with their traps! You will see us forth on our +perils?” + +“I will, since I may not do more,” replied Siegmund, smiling, +continuing: “And how is Sister Louisa?” + +“She is very well, thank you. It is _her_ turn now,” cried Louisa, +vindictive, triumphant. + +There was always a faint animosity in her bearing towards Siegmund. He +understood, and smiled at her enmity, for the two were really good +friends. + +“It is your turn now,” he repeated, smiling, and he turned away. + +He and Helena walked down the platform. + +“How did you find things at home?” he asked her. + +“Oh, as usual,” she replied indifferently. “And you?” + +“Just the same,” he answered. He thought for a moment or two, then +added: “The children are happier without me.” + +“Oh, you mustn’t say that kind of thing protested Helena miserably. +“It’s not true.” + +“It’s all right, dear,” he answered. “So long as they are happy, it’s +all right.” After a pause he added: “But I feel pretty bad tonight.” + +Helena’s hand tightened on his arm. He had reached the end of the +platform. There he stood, looking up the line which ran dark under a +haze of lights. The high red signal-lamps hung aloft in a scarlet +swarm; farther off, like spangles shaking downwards from a burst +sky-rocket, was a tangle of brilliant red and green signal-lamps +settling. A train with the warm flare on its thick column of smoke came +thundering upon the lovers. Dazed, they felt the yellow bar of +carriage-windows brush in vibration across their faces. The ground and +the air rocked. Then Siegmund turned his head to watch the red and the +green lights in the rear of the train swiftly dwindle on the darkness. +Still watching the distance where the train had vanished, he said: + +“Dear, I want you to promise that, whatever happens to me, you will go +on. Remember, dear, two wrongs don’t make a right.” + +Helena swiftly, with a movement of terror, faced him, looking into his +eyes. But he was in the shadow, she could not see him. The flat sound +of his voice, lacking resonance—the dead, expressionless tone—made her +lose her presence of mind. She stared at him blankly. + +“What do you mean? What has happened? Something has happened to you. +What has happened at home? What are you going to do?” she said sharply. +She palpitated with terror. For the first time she felt powerless. +Siegmund was beyond her grasp. She was afraid of him. He had shaken +away her hold over him. + +“There is nothing fresh the matter at home,” he replied wearily. He was +to be scourged with emotion again. “I swear it,” he added. “And I have +not made up my mind. But I can’t think of life without you—and life +must go on.” + +“And I swear,” she said wrathfully, turning at bay, “that I won’t live +a day after you.” + +Siegmund dropped his head. The dead spring of his emotion swelled up +scalding hot again. Then he said, almost inaudibly: “Ah, don’t speak to +me like that, dear. It is late to be angry. When I have seen your train +out tonight there is nothing left.” + +Helena looked at him, dumb with dismay, stupid, angry. + +They became aware of the porters shouting loudly that the Waterloo +train was to leave from another platform. + +“You’d better come,” said Siegmund, and they hurried down towards +Louisa and Olive. + +“We’ve got to change platforms,” cried Louisa, running forward and +excitedly announcing the news. + +“Yes,” replied Helena, pale and impassive. + +Siegmund picked up the luggage. + +“I say,” cried Olive, rushing to catch Helena and Louisa by the arm, +“look—look—both of you—look at that hat!” A lady in front was wearing +on her hat a wild and dishevelled array of peacock feathers. “It’s the +sight of a lifetime. I wouldn’t have you miss it,” added Olive in +hoarse _sotto voce_. + +“Indeed not!” cried Helena, turning in wild exasperation to look. “Get +a good view of it, Olive. Let’s have a good mental impression of it—one +that will last.” + +“That’s right, dear,” said Olive, somewhat nonplussed by this outburst. + +Siegmund had escaped with the heaviest two bags. They could see him +ahead, climbing the steps. Olive readjusted herself from the wildly +animated to the calmly ironical. + +“After all, dear,” she said, as they hurried in the tail of the crowd, +“it’s not half a bad idea to get a man on the job.” + +Louisa laughed aloud at this vulgar conception of Siegmund. + +“Just now, at any rate,” she rejoined. + +As they reached the platform the train ran in before them. Helena +watched anxiously for an empty carriage. There was not one. + +“Perhaps it is as well,” she thought. “We needn’t talk. There will be +three-quarters of an hour at Waterloo. If we were alone. Olive would +make Siegmund talk.” + +She found a carriage with four people, and hastily took possession. +Siegmund followed her with the bags. He swung these on the rack, and +then quickly received the rugs, umbrellas, and packages from the other +two. These he put on the seats or anywhere, while Helena stowed them. +She was very busy for a moment or two; the racks were full. Other +people entered; their luggage was troublesome to bestow. + +When she turned round again she found Louisa and Olive seated, but +Siegmund was outside on the platform, and the door was closed. He saw +her face move as if she would cry to him. She restrained herself, and +immediately called: + +“You are coming? Oh, you are coming to Waterloo?” + +He shook his head. + +“I cannot come,” he said. + +She stood looking blankly at him for some moments, unable to reach the +door because of the portmanteau thrust through with umbrellas and +sticks, which stood on the floor between the knees of the passengers. +She was helpless. Siegmund was repeating deliriously in his mind: + +“Oh—go—go—go—when will she go?” + +He could not bear her piteousness. Her presence made him feel insane. + +“Would you like to come to the window?” a man asked of Helena kindly. + +She smiled suddenly in his direction, without perceiving him. He pulled +the portmanteau under his legs, and Helena edged past. She stood by the +door, leaning forward with some of her old protective grace, her +“Hawwa” spirit evident. Benign and shielding, she bent forward, looking +at Siegmund. But her face was blank with helplessness, with misery of +helplessness. She stood looking at Siegmund, saying nothing. His +forehead was scorched and swollen, she noticed sorrowfully, and beneath +one eye the skin was blistered. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed in a +kind of apathy; they filled her with terror. He looked up at her +because she wished it. For himself, he could not see her; he could only +recoil from her. All he wished was to hide himself in the dark, alone. +Yet she wanted him, and so far he yielded. But to go to Waterloo he +could not yield. + +The people in the carriage, made uneasy by this strange farewell, did +not speak. There were a few taut moments of silence. No one seems to +have strength to interrupt these spaces of irresolute anguish. Finally, +the guard’s whistle went. Siegmund and Helena clasped hands. A warm +flush of love and healthy grief came over Siegmund for the last time. +The train began to move, drawing Helena’s hand from his. + +“Monday,” she whispered—“Monday,” meaning that on Monday she should +receive a letter from him. He nodded, turned, hesitated, looked at her, +turned and walked away. She remained at the window watching him depart. + +“Now, dear, we are manless,” said Olive in a whisper. But her attempt +at a joke fell dead. Everybody was silent and uneasy. + + + + +XXVII + + +He hurried down the platform, wincing at every stride, from the memory +of Helena’s last look of mute, heavy yearning. He gripped his fists +till they trembled; his thumbs were again closed under his fingers. +Like a picture on a cloth before him he still saw Helena’s face, white, +rounded, in feature quite mute and expressionless, just made terrible +by the heavy eyes, pleading dumbly. He thought of her going on and on, +still at the carriage window looking out; all through the night rushing +west and west to the land of Isolde. Things began to haunt Siegmund +like a delirium. He knew not where he was hurrying. Always in front of +him, as on a cloth, was the face of Helena, while somewhere behind the +cloth was Cornwall, a far-off lonely place where darkness came on +intensely. Sometimes he saw a dim, small phantom in the darkness of +Cornwall, very far off. Then the face of Helena, white, inanimate as a +mask, with heavy eyes, came between again. + +He was almost startled to find himself at home, in the porch of his +house. The door opened. He remembered to have heard the quick thud of +feet. It was Vera. She glanced at him, but said nothing. Instinctively +she shrank from him. He passed without noticing her. She stood on the +door-mat, fastening the door, striving to find something to say to him. + +“You have been over an hour,” she said, still more troubled when she +found her voice shaking. She had no idea what alarmed her. + +“Ay,” returned Siegmund. + +He went into the dining-room and dropped into his chair, with his head +between his hands. Vera followed him nervously. + +“Will you have anything to eat?” she asked. + +He looked up at the table, as if the supper laid there were curious and +incomprehensible. The delirious lifting of his eyelids showed the whole +of the dark pupils and the bloodshot white of his eyes. Vera held her +breath with fear. He sank his head again and said nothing. Vera sat +down and waited. The minutes ticked slowly off. Siegmund neither moved +nor spoke. At last the clock struck midnight. She was weary with sleep, +querulous with trouble. + +“Aren’t you going to bed?” she asked. + +Siegmund heard her without paying any attention. He seemed only to half +hear. Vera waited awhile, then repeated plaintively: + +“Aren’t you going to bed, Father?” + +Siegmund lifted his head and looked at her. He loathed the idea of +having to move. He looked at her confusedly. + +“Yes, I’m going,” he said, and his head dropped again. Vera knew he was +not asleep. She dared not leave him till he was in his bedroom. Again +she sat waiting. + +“Father!” she cried at last. + +He started up, gripping the arms of his chair, trembling. + +“Yes, I’m going,” he said. + +He rose, and went unevenly upstairs. Vera followed him close behind. + +“If he reels and falls backwards he will kill me,” she thought, but he +did not fall. From habit he went into the bathroom. While trying to +brush his teeth he dropped the tooth-brush on to the floor. + +“I’ll pick it up in the morning,” he said, continuing deliriously: “I +must go to bed—I must go to bed—I am very tired.” He stumbled over the +door mat into his own room. + +Vera was standing behind the unclosed door of her room. She heard the +sneck of his lock. She heard the water still running in the bathroom, +trickling with the mysterious sound of water at dead of night. Screwing +up her courage, she went and turned off the tap. Then she stood again +in her own room, to be near the companionable breathing of her sleeping +sister, listening. Siegmund undressed quickly. His one thought was to +get into bed. + +“One must sleep,” he said as he dropped his clothes on the floor. He +could not find the way to put on his sleeping-jacket, and that made him +pant. Any little thing that roused or thwarted his mechanical action +aggravated his sickness till his brain seemed to be bursting. He got +things right at last, and was in bed. + +Immediately he lapsed into a kind of unconsciousness. He would have +called it sleep, but such it was not. All the time he could feel his +brain working ceaselessly, like a machine running with unslackening +rapidity. This went on, interrupted by little flickerings of +consciousness, for three or four hours. Each time he had a glimmer of +consciousness he wondered if he made any noise. + +“What am I doing? What is the matter? Am I unconscious? Do I make any +noise? Do I disturb them?” he wondered, and he tried to cast back to +find the record of mechanical sense impression. He believed he could +remember the sound of inarticulate murmuring in his throat. Immediately +he remembered, he could feel his throat producing the sounds. This +frightened him. Above all things, he was afraid of disturbing the +family. He roused himself to listen. Everything was breathing in +silence. As he listened to this silence he relapsed into his sort of +sleep. + +He was awakened finally by his own perspiration. He was terribly hot. +The pillow, the bedclothes, his hair, all seemed to be steaming with +hot vapour, whilst his body was bathed in sweat. It was coming light. +Immediately he shut his eyes again and lay still. He was now conscious, +and his brain was irritably active, but his body was a separate thing, +a terrible, heavy, hot thing over which he had slight control. + +Siegmund lay still, with his eyes closed, enduring the exquisite +torture of the trickling of drops of sweat. First it would be one +gathering and running its irregular, hesitating way into the hollow of +his neck. His every nerve thrilled to it, yet he felt he could not move +more than to stiffen his throat slightly. While yet the nerves in the +track of this drop were quivering, raw with sensitiveness, another drop +would start from off the side of his chest, and trickle downwards among +the little muscles of his side, to drip on to the bed. It was like the +running of a spider over his sensitive, moveless body. Why he did not +wipe himself he did not know. He lay still and endured this horrible +tickling, which seemed to bite deep into him, rather than make the +effort to move, which he loathed to do. The drops ran off his forehead +down his temples. Those he did not mind: he was blunt there. But they +started again, in tiny, vicious spurts, down the sides of his chest, +from under his armpits, down the inner sides of his thighs, till he +seemed to have a myriad quivering tracks of a myriad running insects +over his hot, wet, highly-sensitized body. His nerves were trembling, +one and all, with outrage and vivid suspense. It became unbearable. He +felt that, if he endured it another moment, he would cry out, or +suffocate and burst. + +He sat up suddenly, threw away the bedclothes, from which came a puff +of hot steam, and began to rub his pyjamas against his sides and his +legs. He rubbed madly for a few moments. Then he sighed with relief. He +sat on the side of the bed, moving from the hot dampness of the place +where he had lain. For a moment he thought he would go to sleep. Then, +in an instant his brain seemed to click awake. He was still as loath as +ever to move, but his brain was no longer clouded in hot vapour: it was +clear. He sat, bowing forward on the side of the bed, his +sleeping-jacket open, the dawn stealing into the room, the morning air +entering fresh through the wide-flung window-door. He felt a peculiar +sense of guilt, of wrongness, in thus having jumped out of bed. It +seemed to him as if he ought to have endured the heat of his body, and +the infernal trickling of the drops of sweat. But at the thought of it +he moved his hands gratefully over his sides, which now were dry, and +soft, and smooth; slightly chilled on the surface perhaps, for he felt +a sudden tremor of shivering from the warm contact of his hands. + +Siegmund sat up straight: his body was re-animated. He felt the pillow +and the groove where he had lain. It was quite wet and clammy. There +was a scent of sweat on the bed, not really unpleasant, but he wanted +something fresh and cool. + +Siegmund sat in the doorway that gave on to the small veranda. The air +was beautifully cool. He felt his chest again to make sure it was not +clammy. It was smooth as silk. This pleased him very much. He looked +out on the night again, and was startled. Somewhere the moon was +shining duskily, in a hidden quarter of sky; but straight in front of +him, in the northwest, silent lightning was fluttering. He waited +breathlessly to see if it were true. Then, again, the pale lightning +jumped up into the dome of the fading night. It was like a white bird +stirring restlessly on its nest. The night was drenching thinner, +greyer. The lightning, like a bird that should have flown before the +arm of day, moved on its nest in the boughs of darkness, raised itself, +flickered its pale wings rapidly, then sank again, loath to fly. +Siegmund watched it with wonder and delight. + +The day was pushing aside the boughs of darkness, hunting. The poor +moon would be caught when the net was flung. Siegmund went out on the +balcony to look at it. There it was, like a poor white mouse, a +half-moon, crouching on the mound of its course. It would run nimbly +over to the western slope, then it would be caught in the net, and the +sun would laugh, like a great yellow cat, as it stalked behind playing +with its prey, flashing out its bright paws. The moon, before making +its last run, lay crouched, palpitating. The sun crept forth, laughing +to itself as it saw its prey could not escape. The lightning, however, +leaped low off the nest like a bird decided to go, and flew away. +Siegmund no longer saw it opening and shutting its wings in hesitation +amid the disturbance of the dawn. Instead there came a flush, the white +lightning gone. The brief pink butterflies of sunrise and sunset rose +up from the mown fields of darkness, and fluttered low in a cloud. Even +in the west they flew in a narrow, rosy swarm. They separated, thinned, +rising higher. Some, flying up, became golden. Some flew rosy gold +across the moon, the mouse-moon motionless with fear. Soon the pink +butterflies had gone, leaving a scarlet stretch like a field of poppies +in the fens. As a wind, the light of day blew in from the east, puff +after puff filling with whiteness the space which had been the night. +Siegmund sat watching the last morning blowing in across the mown +darkness, till the whole field of the world was exposed, till the moon +was like a dead mouse which floats on water. + +When the few birds had called in the August morning, when the cocks had +finished their crowing, when the minute sounds of the early day were +astir, Siegmund shivered disconsolate. He felt tired again, yet he knew +he could not sleep. The bed was repulsive to him. He sat in his chair +at the open door, moving uneasily. What should have been sleep was an +ache and a restlessness. He turned and twisted in his chair. + +“Where is Helena?” he asked himself, and he looked out on the morning. + +Everything out of doors was unreal, like a show, like a peepshow. +Helena was an actress somewhere in the brightness of this view. He +alone was out of the piece. He sighed petulantly, pressing back his +shoulders as if they ached. His arms, too, ached with irritation, while +his head seemed to be hissing with angry irritability. For a long time +he sat with clenched teeth, merely holding himself in check. In his +present state of irritability everything that occurred to his mind +stirred him with dislike or disgust. Helena, music, the pleasant +company of friends, the sunshine of the country, each, as it offered +itself to his thoughts, was met by an angry contempt, was rejected +scornfully. As nothing could please or distract him, the only thing +that remained was to support the discord. He felt as if he were a limb +out of joint from the body of life: there occurred to his imagination a +disjointed finger, swollen and discoloured, racked with pains. The +question was, How should he reset himself into joint? The body of life +for him meant Beatrice, his children, Helena, the Comic Opera, his +friends of the orchestra. How could he set himself again into joint +with these? It was impossible. Towards his family he would henceforward +have to bear himself with humility. That was a cynicism. He would have +to leave Helena, which he could not do. He would have to play +strenuously, night after night, the music of _The Saucy Little Switzer_ +which was absurd. In fine, it was all absurd and impossible. Very well, +then, that being so, what remained possible? Why, to depart. “If thine +hand offend thee, cut it off.” He could cut himself off from life. It +was plain and straightforward. + +But Beatrice, his young children, without him! He was bound by an +agreement which there was no discrediting to provide for them. Very +well, he must provide for them. And then what? Humiliation at home, +Helena forsaken, musical comedy night after night. That was +insufferable—impossible! Like a man tangled up in a rope, he was not +strong enough to free himself. He could not break with Helena and +return to a degrading life at home; he could not leave his children and +go to Helena. + +Very well, it was impossible! Then there remained only one door which +he could open in this prison corridor of life. Siegmund looked round +the room. He could get his razor, or he could hang himself. He had +thought of the two ways before. Yet now he was unprovided. His +portmanteau stood at the foot of the bed, its straps flung loose. A +portmanteau strap would do. Then it should be a portmanteau strap! + +“Very well!” said Siegmund, “it is finally settled. I had better write +to Helena, and tell her, and say to her she must go on. I’d better tell +her.” + +He sat for a long time with his notebook and a pencil, but he wrote +nothing. At last he gave up. + +“Perhaps it is just as well,” he said to himself. “She said she would +come with me—perhaps that is just as well. She will go to the sea. When +she knows, the sea will take her. She must know.” + +He took a card, bearing her name and her Cornwall address, from his +pocket-book, and laid it on the dressing-table. + +“She will come with me,” he said to himself, and his heart rose with +elation. + +“That is a cowardice,” he added, looking doubtfully at the card, as if +wondering whether to destroy it. + +“It is in the hands of God. Beatrice may or may not send word to her at +Tintagel. It is in the hands of God,” he concluded. + +Then he sat down again. + +“‘But for that fear of something after-death,’” he quoted to himself. + +“It is not fear,” he said. “The act itself will be horrible and +fearsome, but the after-death—it’s no more than struggling awake when +you’re sick with a fright of dreams. ‘We are such stuff as dreams are +made on.’” + +Siegmund sat thinking of the after-death, which to him seemed so +wonderfully comforting, full of rest, and reassurance, and renewal. He +experienced no mystical ecstasies. He was sure of a wonderful kindness +in death, a kindness which really reached right through life, though +here he could not avail himself of it. Siegmund had always inwardly +held faith that the heart of life beat kindly towards him. When he was +cynical and sulky he knew that in reality it was only a waywardness of +his. + +The heart of life is implacable in its kindness. It may not be moved to +fluttering of pity; it swings on uninterrupted by cries of anguish or +of hate. + +Siegmund was thankful for this unfaltering sternness of life. There was +no futile hesitation between doom and pity. Therefore, he could submit +and have faith. If each man by his crying could swerve the slow, sheer +universe, what a doom of guilt he might gain. If Life could swerve from +its orbit for pity, what terror of vacillation; and who would wish to +bear the responsibility of the deflection? + +Siegmund thanked God that life was pitiless, strong enough to take his +treasures out of his hands, and to thrust him out of the room; +otherwise, how could he go with any faith to death; otherwise, he would +have felt the helpless disillusion of a youth who finds his infallible +parents weaker than himself. + +“I know the heart of life is kind,” said Siegmund, “because I feel it. +Otherwise I would live in defiance. But Life is greater than me or +anybody. We suffer, and we don’t know why, often. Life doesn’t explain. +But I can keep faith in it, as a dog has faith in his master. After +all, Life is as kind to me as I am to my dog. I have, proportionally, +as much zest. And my purpose towards my dog is good. I need not despair +of Life.” + +It occurred to Siegmund that he was meriting the old gibe of the +atheists. He was shirking the responsibility of himself, turning it +over to an imaginary god. + +“Well,” he said, “I can’t help it. I do not feel altogether +self-responsible.” + +The morning had waxed during these investigations. Siegmund had been +vaguely aware of the rousing of the house. He was finally startled into +a consciousness of the immediate present by the calling of Vera at his +door. + +“There are two letters for you. Father.” + +He looked about him in bewilderment; the hours had passed in a trance, +and he had no idea of his time or place. + +“Oh, all right,” he said, too much dazed to know what it meant. He +heard his daughter going downstairs. Then swiftly returned over him the +throbbing ache of his head and his arms, the discordant jarring of his +body. + +“What made her bring me the letters?” he asked himself. It was a very +unusual attention. His heart replied, very sullen and shameful: “She +wanted to know; she wanted to make sure I was all right.” + +Siegmund forgot all his speculations on a divine benevolence. The +discord of his immediate situation overcame every harmony. He did not +fetch in the letters. + +“Is it so late?” he said. “Is there no more time for me?” + +He went to look at his watch. It was a quarter to nine. As he walked +across the room he trembled, and a sickness made his bones feel rotten. +He sat down on the bed. + +“What am I going to do?” he asked himself. + +By this time he was shuddering rapidly. A peculiar feeling, as if his +belly were turned into nothingness, made him want to press his fists +into his abdomen. He remained shuddering drunkenly, like a drunken man +who is sick, incapable of thought or action. + +A second knock came at the door. He started with a jolt. + +“Here is your shaving-water,” said Beatrice in cold tones. “It’s half +past nine.” + +“All right,” said Siegmund, rising from the bed, bewildered. + +“And what time shall you expect dinner?” asked Beatrice. She was still +contemptuous. + +“Any time. I’m not going out,” he answered. + +He was surprised to hear the ordinary cool tone of his own voice, for +he was shuddering uncontrollably, and was almost sobbing. In a shaking, +bewildered, disordered condition he set about fulfilling his purpose. +He was hardly conscious of anything he did; try as he would, he could +not keep his hands steady in the violent spasms of shuddering, nor +could he call his mind to think. He was one shuddering turmoil. Yet he +performed his purpose methodically and exactly. In every particular he +was thorough, as if he were the servant of some stern will. It was a +mesmeric performance, in which the agent trembled with convulsive +sickness. + + + + +XXVIII + + +Siegmund’s lying late in bed made Beatrice very angry. The later it +became, the more wrathful she grew. At half past nine she had taken up +his shaving-water. Then she proceeded to tidy the dining-room, leaving +the breakfast spread in the kitchen. + +Vera and Frank were gone up to town; they would both be home for dinner +at two o’clock. Marjory was despatched on an errand, taking Gwen with +her. The children had no need to return home immediately, therefore it +was highly probable they would play in the field or in the lane for an +hour or two. Beatrice was alone downstairs. It was a hot, still +morning, when everything outdoors shone brightly, and all indoors was +dusked with coolness and colour. But Beatrice was angry. She moved +rapidly and determinedly about the dining-room, thrusting old +newspapers and magazines between the cupboard and the wall, throwing +the litter in the grate, which was clear, Friday having been +charwoman’s day, passing swiftly, lightly over the front of the +furniture with the duster. It was Saturday, when she did not spend much +time over the work. In the afternoon she was going out with Vera. That +was not, however, what occupied her mind as she brushed aside her work. +She had determined to have a settlement with Siegmund, as to how +matters should continue. She was going to have no more of the past +three years’ life; things had come to a crisis, and there must be an +alteration. Beatrice was going to do battle, therefore she flew at her +work, thus stirring herself up to a proper heat of blood. All the time, +as she thrust things out of sight, or straightened a cover, she +listened for Siegmund to come downstairs. + +He did not come, so her anger waxed. + +“He can lie skulking in bed!” she said to herself. “Here I’ve been up +since seven, broiling at it. I should think he’s pitying himself. He +ought to have something else to do. He ought to have to go out to work +every morning, like another man, as his son has to do. He has had too +little work. He has had too much his own way. But it’s come to a stop +now. I’ll servant-housekeeper him no longer.” + +Beatrice went to clean the step of the front door. She clanged the +bucket loudly, every minute becoming more and more angry. That piece of +work finished, she went into the kitchen. It was twenty past ten. Her +wrath was at ignition point. She cleared all the things from the table +and washed them up. As she was so doing, her anger, having reached full +intensity without bursting into flame, began to dissipate in +uneasiness. She tried to imagine what Siegmund would do and say to her. +As she was wiping a cup, she dropped it, and the smash so unnerved her +that her hands trembled almost too much to finish drying the things and +putting them away. At last it was done. Her next piece of work was to +make the beds. She took her pail and went upstairs. Her heart was +beating so heavily in her throat that she had to stop on the landing to +recover breath. She dreaded the combat with him. Suddenly controlling +herself, she said loudly at Siegmund’s door, her voice coldly hostile: + +“Aren’t you going to get up?” + +There was not the faintest sound in the house. Beatrice stood in the +gloom of the landing, her heart thudding in her ears. + +“It’s after half past ten—aren’t you going to get up?” she called. + +She waited again. Two letters lay unopened on a small table. Suddenly +she put down her pail and went into the bathroom. The pot of +shaving-water stood untouched on the shelf, just as she had left it. +She returned and knocked swiftly at her husband’s door, not speaking. +She waited, then she knocked again, loudly, a long time. Something in +the sound of her knocking made her afraid to try again. The noise was +dull and thudding: it did not resound through the house with a natural +ring, so she thought. She ran downstairs in terror, fled out into the +front garden, and there looked up at his room. The window-door was +open—everything seemed quiet. + +Beatrice stood vacillating. She picked up a few tiny pebbles and flung +them in a handful at his door. Some spattered on the panes sharply; +some dropped dully in the room. One clinked on the wash-hand bowl. +There was no response. Beatrice was terribly excited. She ran, with her +black eyes blazing, and wisps of her black hair flying about her thin +temples, out on to the road. By a mercy she saw the window-cleaner just +pushing his ladder out of the passage of a house a little farther down +the road. She hurried to him. + +“Will you come and see if there’s anything wrong with my husband?” she +asked wildly. + +“Why, mum?” answered the window-cleaner, who knew her, and was humbly +familiar. “Is he taken bad or something? Yes, I’ll come.” + +He was a tall thin man with a brown beard. His clothes were all so +loose, his trousers so baggy, that he gave one the impression his limbs +must be bone, and his body a skeleton. He pushed at his ladders with a +will. + +“Where is he, Mum?” he asked officiously, as they slowed down at the +side passage. + +“He’s in his bedroom, and I can’t get an answer from him.” + +“Then I s’ll want a ladder,” said the window-cleaner, proceeding to +lift one off his trolley. He was in a very great bustle. He knew which +was Siegmund’s room: he had often seen Siegmund rise from some music he +was studying and leave the drawing-room when the window-cleaning began, +and afterwards he had found him in the small front bedroom. He also +knew there were matrimonial troubles: Beatrice was not reserved. + +“Is it the least of the front rooms he’s in?” asked the window-cleaner. + +“Yes, over the porch,” replied Beatrice. + +The man bustled with his ladder. + +“It’s easy enough,” he said. “The door’s open, and we’re soon on the +balcony.” + +He set the ladder securely. Beatrice cursed him for a slow, officious +fool. He tested the ladder, to see it was safe, then he cautiously +clambered up. At the top he stood leaning sideways, bending over the +ladder to peer into the room. He could see all sorts of things, for he +was frightened. + +“I say there!” he called loudly. + +Beatrice stood below in horrible suspense. + +“Go in!” she cried. “Go in! Is he there?” + +The man stepped very cautiously with one foot on to the balcony, and +peered forward. But the glass door reflected into his eyes. He followed +slowly with the other foot, and crept forward, ready at any moment to +take flight. + +“Hie, hie!” he suddenly cried in terror, and he drew back. + +Beatrice was opening her mouth to scream, when the window-cleaner +exclaimed weakly, as if dubious: + +“I believe ’e’s ’anged ’imself from the door-’ooks!” + +“No!” cried Beatrice. “No, no, no!” + +“I believe ’e ’as!” repeated the man. + +“Go in and see if he’s dead!” cried Beatrice. + +The man remained in the doorway, peering fixedly. + +“I believe he is,” he said doubtfully. + +“No—go and see!” screamed Beatrice. + +The man went into the room, trembling, hesitating. He approached the +body as if fascinated. Shivering, he took it round the loins and tried +to lift it down. It was too heavy. + +“I know!” he said to himself, once more bustling now he had something +to do. He took his clasp-knife from his pocket, jammed the body between +himself and the door so that it should not drop, and began to saw his +way through the leathern strap. It gave. He started, and clutched the +body, dropping his knife. Beatrice, below in the garden, hearing the +scuffle and the clatter, began to scream in hysteria. The man hauled +the body of Siegmund, with much difficulty, on to the bed, and with +trembling fingers tried to unloose the buckle in which the strap ran. +It was bedded in Siegmund’s neck. The window-cleaner tugged at it +frantically, till he got it loose. Then he looked at Siegmund. The dead +man lay on the bed with swollen, discoloured face, with his +sleeping-jacket pushed up in a bunch under his armpits, leaving his +side naked. Beatrice was screaming below. The window-cleaner, quite +unnerved, ran from the room and scrambled down the ladder. Siegmund lay +heaped on the bed, his sleeping-suit twisted and bunched up about him, +his face hardly recognizable. + + + + +XXIX + + +Helena was dozing down in the cove at Tintagel. She and Louisa and +Olive lay on the cool sands in the shadow, and steeped themselves in +rest, in a cool, sea-fragrant tranquillity. + +The journey down had been very tedious. After waiting for half an hour +in the midnight turmoil of an August Friday in Waterloo station, they +had seized an empty carriage, only to be followed by five +north-countrymen, all of whom were affected by whisky. Olive, Helena, +Louisa, occupied three corners of the carriage. The men were +distributed between them. The three women were not alarmed. Their tipsy +travelling companions promised to be tiresome, but they had a frank +honesty of manner that placed them beyond suspicion. The train drew out +westward. Helena began to count the miles that separated her from +Siegmund. The north-countrymen began to be jolly: they talked loudly in +their uncouth English; they sang the music-hall songs of the day; they +furtively drank whisky. Through all this they were polite to the girls. +As much could hardly be said in return of Olive and Louisa. They leaned +forward whispering one to another. They sat back in their seats +laughing, hiding their laughter by turning their backs on the men, who +were a trifle disconcerted by this amusement. + +The train spun on and on. Little homely clusters of lamps, suggesting +the quiet of country life, turned slowly round through the darkness. +The men dropped into a doze. Olive put a handkerchief over her face and +went to sleep. Louisa gradually nodded and jerked into slumber. Helena +sat weariedly and watched the rolling of the sleeping travellers and +the dull blank of the night sheering off outside. Neither the men nor +the women looked well asleep. They lurched and nodded stupidly. She +thought of Bazarof in _Fathers and Sons_, endorsing his opinion on the +appearance of sleepers: all but Siegmund. Was Siegmund asleep? She +imagined him breathing regularly on the pillows; she could see the +under arch of his eyebrows, the fine shape of his nostrils, the curve +of his lips, as she bent in fancy over his face. + +The dawn came slowly. It was rather cold. Olive wrapped herself in rugs +and went to sleep again. Helena shivered, and stared out of the window. +There appeared a wanness in the night, and Helena felt inexpressibly +dreary. A rosiness spread out far away. It was like a flock of +flamingoes hovering over a dark lake. The world vibrated as the sun +came up. + +Helena waked the tipsy men at Exeter, having heard them say that there +they must change. Then she walked the platform, very jaded. The train +rushed on again. It was a most, most wearisome journey. The fields were +very flowery, the morning was very bright, but what were these to her? +She wanted dimness, sleep, forgetfulness. At eight o’clock, +breakfast-time, the ”dauntless three” were driving in a waggonette amid +blazing, breathless sunshine, over country naked of shelter, ungracious +and harsh. + +“Why am I doing this?” Helena asked herself. + +The three friends, washed, dressed, and breakfasted. It was too hot to +rest in the house, so they trudged to the coast, silently, each feeling +in an ill humour. + +When Helena was really rested, she took great pleasure in Tintagel. In +the first place, she found that the cove was exactly, almost +identically the same as the Walhalla scene in _Walküre_; in the second +place, _Tristan_ was here, in the tragic country filled with the +flowers of a late Cornish summer, an everlasting reality; in the third +place, it was a sea of marvellous, portentous sunsets, of sweet morning +baths, of pools blossomed with life, of terrible suave swishing of foam +which suggested the Anadyomene. In sun it was the enchanted land of +divided lovers. Helena for ever hummed fragments of _Tristan_. As she +stood on the rocks she sang, in her little, half-articulate way, bits +of Isolde’s love, bits of Tristan’s anguish, to Siegmund. + +She had not received her letter on Sunday. That had not very much +disquieted her, though she was disappointed. On Monday she was +miserable because of Siegmund’s silence, but there was so much of +enchantment in Tintagel, and Olive and Louisa were in such high +spirits, that she forgot most whiles. + +On Monday night, towards two o’clock, there came a violent storm of +thunder and lightning. Louisa started up in bed at the first clap, +waking Helena. The room palpitated with white light for two seconds; +the mirror on the dressing-table glared supernaturally. Louisa clutched +her friend. All was dark again, the thunder clapping directly. + +“There, wasn’t that lovely!” cried Louisa, speaking of the lightning. +“Oo, wasn’t it magnificent!—glorious!” + +The door clicked and opened: Olive entered in her long white nightgown. +She hurried to the bed. + +“I say, dear!” she exclaimed, “may I come into the fold? I prefer the +shelter of your company, dear, during this little lot.” + +“Don’t you like it?” cried Louisa. “I think it’s _lovely_—lovely!” + +There came another slash of lightning. The night seemed to open and +shut. It was a pallid vision of a ghost-world between the clanging +shutters of darkness. Louisa and Olive clung to each other +spasmodically. + +“There!” exclaimed the former, breathless. “That was fine! Helena, did +you see that?” + +She clasped ecstatically the hand of her friend, who was lying down. +Helena’s answer was extinguished by the burst of thunder. + +“There’s no accounting for tastes,” said Olive, taking a place in the +bed. “I can’t say I’m struck on lightning. What about you, Helena?” + +“I’m not struck yet,” replied Helena, with a sarcastic attempt at a +jest. + +“Thank you, dear,” said Olive; “you do me the honour of catching hold.” + +Helena laughed ironically. + +“Catching what?” asked Louisa, mystified. + +“Why, dear,” answered Olive, heavily condescending to explain, “I +offered Helena the handle of a pun, and she took it. What a flash! You +know, it’s not that I’m afraid….” + +The rest of her speech was overwhelmed in thunder. + +Helena lay on the edge of the bed, listening to the ecstatics of one +friend and to the impertinences of the other. In spite of her ironical +feeling, the thunder impressed her with a sense of fatality. The night +opened, revealing a ghostly landscape, instantly to shut again with +blackness. Then the thunder crashed. Helena felt as if some secret were +being disclosed too swiftly and violently for her to understand. The +thunder exclaimed horribly on the matter. She was sure something had +happened. + +Gradually the storm, drew away. The rain came down with a rush, +persisted with a bruising sound upon the earth and the leaves. + +“What a deluge!” exclaimed Louisa. + +No one answered her. Olive was falling asleep, and Helena was in no +mood to reply. Louisa, disconsolate, lay looking at the black window, +nursing a grievance, until she, too, drifted into sleep. Helena was +awake; the storm had left her with a settled sense of calamity. She +felt bruised. The sound of the heavy rain bruising the ground outside +represented her feeling; she could not get rid of the bruised sense of +disaster. + +She lay wondering what it was, why Siegmund had not written, what could +have happened to him. She imagined all of them terrible, and endued +with grandeur, for she had kinship with Hedda Gabler. + +“But no,” she said to herself, “it is impossible anything should have +happened to him—I should have known. I should have known the moment his +spirit left his body; he would have come to me. But I slept without +dreams last night, and today I am sure there has been no crisis. It is +impossible it should have happened to him: I should have known.” + +She was very certain that in event of Siegmund’s death, she would have +received intelligence. She began to consider all the causes which might +arise to prevent his writing immediately to her. + +“Nevertheless,” she said at last, “if I don’t hear tomorrow I will go +and see.” + +She had written to him on Monday. If she should receive no answer by +Wednesday morning she would return to London. As she was deciding this +she went to sleep. + +The next day passed without news. Helena was in a state of distress. +Her wistfulness touched the other two women very keenly. Louisa waited +upon her, was very tender and solicitous. Olive, who was becoming +painful by reason of her unsatisfied curiosity, had to be told in part +of the state of affairs. + +Helena looked up a train. She was quite sure by this time that +something fatal awaited her. + +The next morning she bade her friends a temporary good-bye, saying she +would return in the evening. Immediately the train had gone, Louisa +rushed into the little waiting-room of the station and wept. Olive shed +tears for sympathy and self-pity. She pitied herself that she should be +let in for so dismal a holiday. Louisa suddenly stopped crying and sat +up: + +“Oh, I know I’m a pig, dear, am I not?” she exclaimed. “Spoiling your +holiday. But I couldn’t help it, dear, indeed I could not.” + +“My dear Lou!” cried Olive in tragic contralto. “Don’t refrain for my +sake. The bargain’s made; we can’t help what’s in the bundle.” + +The two unhappy women trudged the long miles back from the station to +their lodging. Helena sat in the swinging express revolving the same +thought like a prayer-wheel. It would be difficult to think of anything +more trying than thus sitting motionless in the train, which itself is +throbbing and bursting its heart with anxiety, while one waits hour +after hour for the blow which falls nearer as the distance lessens. All +the time Helena’s heart and her consciousness were with Siegmund in +London, for she believed he was ill and needed her. + +“Promise me,” she had said, “if ever I were sick and wanted you, you +would come to me.” + +“I would come to you from hell!” Siegmund had replied. + +“And if you were ill—you would let me come to you?” she had added. + +“I promise,” he answered. + +Now Helena believed he was ill, perhaps very ill, perhaps she only +could be of any avail. The miles of distance were like hot bars of iron +across her breast, and against them it was impossible to strive. The +train did what it could. + +That day remains as a smear in the record of Helena’s life. In it there +is no spacing of hours, no lettering of experience, merely a smear of +suspense. + +Towards six o’clock she alighted, at Surbiton station, deciding that +this would be the quickest way of getting to Wimbledon. She paced the +platform slowly, as if resigned, but her heart was crying out at the +great injustice of delay. Presently the local train came in. She had +planned to buy a local paper at Wimbledon, and if from that source she +could learn nothing, she would go on to his house and inquire. She had +prearranged everything minutely. + +After turning the newspaper several times she found what she sought. + +“The funeral took place, at two o’clock today at Kingston Cemetery, of +——. Deceased was a professor of music, and had just returned from a +holiday on the South Coast….” + +The paragraph, in a bald twelve lines, told her everything. + +“Jury returned a verdict of suicide during temporary insanity. Sympathy +was expressed for the widow and children.” + +Helena stood still on the station for some time, looking at the print. +Then she dropped the paper and wandered into the town, not knowing +where she was going. + +“That was what I got,” she said, months afterwards; “and it was like a +brick, it was like a brick.” + +She wandered on and on, until suddenly she found herself in the grassy +lane with only a wire fence bounding her from the open fields on either +side, beyond which fields, on the left, she could see Siegmund’s house +standing florid by the road, catching the western sunlight. Then she +stopped, realizing where she had come. For some time she stood looking +at the house. It was no use her going there; it was of no use her going +anywhere; the whole wide world was opened, but in it she had no +destination, and there was no direction for her to take. As if marooned +in the world, she stood desolate, looking from the house of Siegmund +over the fields and the hills. Siegmund was gone; why had he not taken +her with him? + +The evening was drawing on; it was nearly half past seven when Helena +looked at her watch, remembering Louisa, who would be waiting for her +to return to Cornwall. + +“I must either go to her, or wire to her. She will be in a fever of +suspense,” said Helena to herself, and straightway she hurried to catch +a tramcar to return to the station. She arrived there at a quarter to +eight; there was no train down to Tintagel that night. Therefore she +wired the news: + +“Siegmund dead. No train tonight. Am going home.” + + +This done, she took her ticket and sat down to wait. By the strength of +her will everything she did was reasonable and accurate. But her mind +was chaotic. + +“It was like a brick,” she reiterated, and that brutal simile was the +only one she could find, months afterwards, to describe her condition. +She felt as if something had crashed into her brain, stunning and +maiming her. + +As she knocked at the door of home she was apparently quite calm. Her +mother opened to her. + +“What, are you alone?” cried Mrs. Verden. + +“Yes. Louisa did not come up,” replied Helena, passing into the +dining-room. As if by instinct she glanced on the mantelpiece to see if +there was a letter. There was a newspaper cutting. She went forward and +took it. It was from one of the London papers. + +“Inquest was held today upon the body of ——.” + +Helena read it, read it again, folded it up and put it in her purse. +Her mother stood watching her, consumed with distress and anxiety. + +“How did you get to know?” she asked. + +“I went to Wimbledon and bought a local paper,” replied the daughter, +in her muted, toneless voice. + +“Did you go to the house?” asked the mother sharply. + +“No,” replied Helena. + +“I was wondering whether to send you that paper,” said her mother +hesitatingly. + +Helena did not answer her. She wandered about the house mechanically, +looking for something. Her mother followed her, trying very gently to +help her. + +For some time Helena sat at table in the dining-room staring before +her. Her parents moved restlessly in silence, trying not to irritate +her by watching her, praying for something to change the fixity of her +look. They acknowledged themselves helpless; like children, they felt +powerless and forlorn, and were very quiet. + +“Won’t you go to rest, Nellie?” asked the father at last. He was an +unobtrusive, obscure man, whose sympathy was very delicate, whose +ordinary attitude was one of gentle irony. + +“Won’t you go to rest, Nellie?” he repeated. + +Helena shivered slightly. + +“Do, my dear,” her mother pleaded. “Let me take you to bed.” + +Helena rose. She had a great horror of being fussed or petted, but this +night she went dully upstairs, and let her mother help her to undress. +When she was in bed the mother stood for some moments looking at her, +yearning to beseech her daughter to pray to God; but she dared not. +Helena moved with a wild impatience under her mother’s gaze. + +“Shall I leave you the candle?” said Mrs Verden. + +“No, blow it out,” replied the daughter. The mother did so, and +immediately left the room, going downstairs to her husband. As she +entered the dining-room he glanced up timidly at her. She was a tall, +erect woman. Her brown eyes, usually so swift and searching, were +haggard with tears that did not fall. He bowed down, obliterating +himself. His hands were tightly clasped. + +“Will she be all right if you leave her?” he asked. + +“We must listen,” replied the mother abruptly. + +The parents sat silent in their customary places. Presently Mrs. Verden +cleared the supper table, sweeping together a few crumbs from the floor +in the place where Helena had sat, carefully putting her pieces of +broken bread under the loaf to keep moist. Then she sat down again. One +could see she was keenly alert to every sound. The father had his hand +to his head; he was thinking and praying. + +Mrs. Verden suddenly rose, took a box of matches from the mantelpiece, +and hurrying her stately, heavy tread, went upstairs. Her husband +followed in much trepidation, hovering near the door of his daughter’s +room. The mother tremblingly lit the candle. Helena’s aspect distressed +and alarmed her. The girl’s face was masked as if in sleep, but +occasionally it was crossed by a vivid expression of fear or horror. +Her wide eyes showed the active insanity of her brain. From time to +time she uttered strange, inarticulate sounds. Her mother held her +hands and soothed her. Although she was hardly aware of the mother’s +presence, Helena was more tranquil. The father went downstairs and +turned out the light. He brought his wife a large shawl, which he put +on the bed-rail, and silently left the room. Then he went and kneeled +down by his own bedside, and prayed. + +Mrs Verden watched her daughter’s delirium, and all the time, in a kind +of mental chant, invoked the help of God. Once or twice the girl came +to herself, drew away her hand on recognizing the situation, and turned +from her mother, who patiently waited until, upon relapse, she could +soothe her daughter again. Helena was glad of her mother’s presence, +but she could not bear to be looked at. + +Towards morning the girl fell naturally asleep. The mother regarded her +closely, lightly touched her forehead with her lips, and went away, +having blown out the candle. She found her husband kneeling in his +nightshirt by the bed. He muttered a few swift syllables, and looked up +as she entered. + +“She is asleep,” whispered the wife hoarsely. + +“Is it a—a natural sleep?” hesitated the husband. + +“Yes. I think it is. I think she will be all right.” + +“Thank God!” whispered the father, almost inaudibly. + +He held his wife’s hand as she lay by his side. He was the comforter. +She felt as if now she might cry and take comfort and sleep. He, the +quiet, obliterated man, held her hand, taking the responsibility upon +himself. + + + + +XXX + + +Beatrice was careful not to let the blow of Siegmund’s death fall with +full impact upon her. As it were, she dodged it. She was afraid to meet +the 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’s +understanding, she fled, leaving the verdict upon herself eternally +suspended. + +When the neighbours had come, alarmed by her screaming, she had allowed +herself to be taken away from her own house into the home of a +neighbour. There the children were brought to her. There she wept, and +stared wildly about, as if by instinct seeking to cover her mind with +confusion. The good neighbour controlled matters in Siegmund’s house, +sending for the police, helping to lay out the dead body. Before Vera +and Frank came home, and before Beatrice returned to her own place, the +bedroom of Siegmund was locked. + +Beatrice avoided seeing the body of her husband; she gave him one swift +glance, blinded by excitement; she never saw him after his death. She +was equally careful to avoid thinking of him. Whenever her thoughts +wandered towards a consideration of how he must have felt, what his +inner life must have been, during the past six years, she felt herself +dilate with terror, and she hastened to invoke protection. + +“The children!” she said to herself—“the children. I must live for the +children; I must think for the children.” + +This she did, and with much success. All her tears and her wildness +rose from terror and dismay rather than from grief. She managed to fend +back a grief that would probably have broken her. Vera was too +practical-minded, she had too severe a notion of what ought to be and +what ought not, ever to put herself in her father’s place and try to +understand him. She concerned herself with judging him sorrowfully, +exonerating him in part because Helena, that other, was so much more to +blame. Frank, as a sentimentalist, wept over the situation, not over +the personae. The children were acutely distressed by the harassing +behaviour of the elders, and longed for a restoration of equanimity. By +common consent no word was spoken of Siegmund. As soon as possible +after the funeral Beatrice moved from South London to Harrow. The +memory of Siegmund began to fade rapidly. + +Beatrice had had all her life a fancy for a more open, public form of +living than that of a domestic circle. She liked strangers about the +house; they stimulated her agreeably. Therefore, nine months after the +death of her husband, she determined to carry out the scheme of her +heart, and take in boarders. She came of a well-to-do family, with whom +she had been in disgrace owing to her early romantic but degrading +marriage with a young lad who had neither income nor profession. In the +tragic, but also sordid, event of his death, the Waltons returned again +to the aid of Beatrice. They came hesitatingly, and kept their gloves +on. They inquired what she intended to do. She spoke highly and +hopefully of her future boarding-house. They found her a couple of +hundred pounds, glad to salve their consciences so cheaply. Siegmund’s +father, a winsome old man with a heart of young gold, was always ready +further to diminish his diminished income for the sake of his +grandchildren. So Beatrice was set up in a fairly large house in +Highgate, was equipped with two maids, and gentlemen were invited to +come and board in her house. It was a huge adventure, wherein Beatrice +was delighted. Vera was excited and interested; Frank was excited, but +doubtful and grudging; the children were excited, elated, wondering. +The world was big with promise. + +Three gentlemen came, before a month was out, to Beatrice’s +establishment. She hoped shortly to get a fourth or a fifth. Her plan +was to play hostess, and thus bestow on her boarders the inestimable +blessing of family life. Breakfast was at eight-thirty, and everyone +attended. Vera sat opposite Beatrice, Frank sat on the maternal right +hand; Mr MacWhirter, who was _superior_, sat on the left hand; next him +sat Mr Allport, whose opposite was Mr Holiday. All were young men of +less than thirty years. Mr MacWhirter was tall, fair, and stoutish; he +was very quietly spoken, was humorous and amiable, yet extraordinarily +learned. He never, by any chance, gave himself away, maintaining always +an absolute reserve amid all his amiability. Therefore Frank would have +done 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 a +remarkably small chin. He was naïve, inclined to suffer in the first +pangs of disillusionment; nevertheless, he was waywardly humorous, +sometimes wistful, sometimes petulant, always gallant. Therefore Vera +liked him, whilst Beatrice mothered him. Mr Holiday was short, very +stout, very ruddy, with black hair. He had a disagreeable voice, was +vulgar 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 superior and skilful way in which she handled him, clipping him +into shape without 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 +his elbow on the window-sill, looking out on the garden. It was +half-past seven. The red rents between the foliage of the trees showed +the sun was setting; a fragrance of evening-scented stocks filtered +into the room through the open window; towards the south the moon was +budding out of the twilight. + +“What, you here all alone!” exclaimed Beatrice, who had just come from +putting the children to bed. “I thought you had gone out.” + +“No—o! What’s the use,” replied Mr Allport, turning to look at his +landlady, “of going out? There’s nowhere to go.” + +“Oh, come! There’s the Heath, and the City—and you must join a tennis +club. 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 I mean +to say—you want a pal—and even then—well”—he drawled the word—“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’s +like this—you only get up to the same thing tomorrow. What I mean to +say—what’s the good, after all? It’s merely living because you’ve got +to.” + +“You are too pessimistic altogether for a young man. I look at it +differently 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 to +say—it’s nothing very definite. But, after all—what is there to do but +to 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 the +others.” + +“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 of +reserve ostentatiously over her face. Mr. Allport looked at her and +waited. Beatrice relaxed toward the pessimistic young man. + +“Yes,” she said, “I call it very cowardly to want to get out of your +difficulties in that way. Think what you inflict on other people. You +men, 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 have +to 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 one +of your sort: he ran after trouble, and when he’d found it—he couldn’t +carry 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’s +no light thing, I can assure you.” + +There was a suspicion of tears in her voice. + +“And when was this, then—that he—?” asked Mr. Allport, almost with +reverence. + +“Only last year,” replied Beatrice. + +Mr. Allport made a sound expressing astonishment and dismay. Little by +little Beatrice told him so much: “Her husband had got entangled with +another woman. She herself had put up with it for a long time. At last +she had brought matters to a crisis, declaring what she should do. He +had 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 +careless youth, that her heart was heavy.” + +There was silence for a while. Mr. Allport murmured his sympathy, and +sat overwhelmed with respect for this little woman who was unbroken by +tragedy. 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 chatting +with the mater. You must have been an unscrupulous bore, maman.” + +“On the contrary,” replied Mr. Allport, “Mrs. MacNair has been so good +as 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,” said +Beatrice playfully. + +“Unfortunately, I am not—or at least I am not yet aware of it,” said +Mr. Allport, bowing slightly to Vera. + +She advanced and stood in the bay of the window, her skirt touching the +young man’s knees. She was tall and graceful. With her hands clasped +behind her back she stood looking up at the moon, now white upon the +richly darkening sky. + +“Don’t look at the moon, Miss MacNair, it’s all rind,” said Mr Allport +in melancholy mockery. “Somebody’s bitten all the meat out of our slice +of 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 it +raw, I think.” + +“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “But isn’t it a beautiful evening? I will +just 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 the +fragrance. + +“Ho! that’s where you are!” he cried in his nasal tenor, which annoyed +Vera’s trained ear. She wished she had not been wearing a white dress +to betray 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 +swiftly to Vera. + +“Have you ever noticed, Mr Holiday,” asked Vera, as if very friendly, +“how awfully tantalizing these flowers are? They won’t open while +you’re looking.” + +“No,” sniggered he, I don’t blame ’em. Why should they give themselves +away any more than you do? You won’t open while you’re watched.” He +nudged Allport facetiously with his elbow. + +After supper, which was late and badly served, the young men were in +poor spirits. Mr MacWhirter retired to read. Mr Holiday sat picking his +teeth; Mr. Allport begged Vera to play the piano. + +“Oh, the piano is not my instrument; mine was the violin, but I do not +play now,” she replied. + +“But you will begin again,” pleaded Mr. Allport. + +“No, never!” she said decisively. Allport looked at her closely. The +family tragedy had something to do with her decision, he was sure. He +watched 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 the +music-rack. + +“Nay—I—it’s not me,” Holiday began. + +“‘The Village Blacksmith’,” said Vera, pulling out the piece. Holiday +advanced. Vera glanced at her mother. + +“But I have not touched the piano for—for years, I am sure,” protested +Beatrice. + +“You can play beautifully,” said Vera. + +Beatrice accompanied the song. Holiday sang atrociously. Allport glared +at him. Vera remained very calm. + +At the end Beatrice was overcome by the touch of the piano. She went +out abruptly. + +“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. She +would have found it more difficult to refuse than to comply. + +Vera retired early, soon to be followed by Allport and Holiday. At half +past ten Mr. MacWhirter came in with his ancient volume. Beatrice was +studying 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,” smiled +the 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, for +instance. 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 could +play.” + +“You play excellently. Why that ‘once could’?” said MacWhirter. + +“Ah, you are amiable. My old master would have said differently,” she +replied. + +“We,” said MacWhirter, “are humble amateurs, and to us you are more +than excellent.” + +“Good old Monsieur Fannière, how he would scold me! He said I would not +take my talent out of the napkin. He would quote me the New Testament. +I always think Scripture false in French, do not you?” + +“Er—my acquaintance with modern languages is not extensive, I regret to +say.” + +“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. + + + + +XXXI + + +In the same month of July, not yet a year after Siegmund’s death, +Helena sat on the top of the tramcar with Cecil Byrne. She was dressed +in blue linen, for the day had been hot. Byrne was holding up to her a +yellow-backed copy of _Einsame Menschen_, and she was humming the air +of the Russian folk-song printed on the front page, frowning, nodding +with her head, and beating time with her hand to get the rhythm of the +song. She turned suddenly to him, and shook her head, laughing. + +“I can’t get it—it’s no use. I think it’s the swinging of the car +prevents me getting the time,” she said. + +“These little outside things always come a victory over you,” he +laughed. + +“Do they?” she replied, smiling, bending her head against the wind. It +was six o’clock in the evening. The sky was quite overcast, after a +dim, warm day. The tramcar was leaping along southwards. Out of the +corners of his eyes Byrne watched the crisp morsels of hair shaken on +her neck by the wind. + +“Do you know,” she said, “it feels rather like rain.” + +“Then,” said he calmly, but turning away to watch the people below on +the pavement, “you certainly ought not to be out.” + +“I ought not,” she said, “for I’m totally unprovided.” + +Neither, however, had the slightest intention of turning back. + +Presently they descended from the car, and took a road leading uphill +off the highway. Trees hung over one side, whilst on the other side +stood a few villas with lawns upraised. Upon one of these lawns two +great sheep-dogs rushed and stood at the brink of the, grassy +declivity, at some height above the road, barking and urging +boisterously. Helena and Byrne stood still to watch them. One dog was +grey, as is usual, the other pale fawn. They raved extravagantly at the +two pedestrians. Helena laughed at them. + +“They are—” she began, in her slow manner. + +“Villa sheep-dogs baying us wolves,” he continued. + +“No,” she said, “they remind me of Fafner and Fasolt.” + +“Fasolt? They _are_ like that. I wonder if they really dislike us.” + +“It appears so,” she laughed. + +“Dogs generally chum up to me,” he said. + +Helena began suddenly to laugh. He looked at her inquiringly. + +“I remember,” she said, still laughing, “at Knockholt—you—a half-grown +lamb—a dog—in procession.” She marked the position of the three with +her finger. + +“What an ass I must have looked!” he said. + +“Sort of silent Pied Piper,” she laughed. + +“Dogs do follow me like that, though,” he said. + +“They did Siegmund,” she said. + +“Ah!” he exclaimed. + +“I remember they had for a long time a little brown dog that followed +him home.” + +“Ah!” he exclaimed. + +“I remember, too,” she said, “a little black-and-white kitten that +followed me. Mater _would not_ have it in—she would not. And I remember +finding it, a few days after, dead in the road. I don’t think I ever +quite forgave my mater that.” + +“More sorrow over one kitten brought to destruction than over all the +sufferings of men,” he said. + +She glanced at him and laughed. He was smiling ironically. + +“For the latter, you see,” she replied, “I am not responsible.” + +As they neared the top of the hill a few spots of rain fell. + +“You know,” said Helena, “if it begins it will continue all night. Look +at that!” + +She pointed to the great dark reservoir of cloud ahead. + +“Had we better go back?” he asked. + +“Well, we will go on and find a thick tree; then we can shelter till we +see how it turns out. We are not far from the cars here.” + +They walked on and on. The raindrops fell more thickly, then thinned +away. + +“It is exactly a year today,” she said, as they-walked on the round +shoulder of the down with an oak-wood on the left hand. “Exactly!” + +“What anniversary is it, then?” he inquired. + +“Exactly a year today, Siegmund and I walked here—by the day, Thursday. +We went through the larch-wood. Have you ever been through the +larch-wood?” + +“No.” + +“We will go, then,” she said. + +“History repeats itself,” he remarked. + +“How?” she asked calmly. + +He was pulling at the heads of the cocksfoot grass as he walked. + +“I see no repetition,” she added. + +“No,” he exclaimed bitingly; “you are right!” + +They went on in silence. As they drew near a farm they saw the men +unloading a last wagon of hay on to a very brown stack. He sniffed the +air. Though he was angry, he spoke. + +“They got that hay rather damp,” he said. “Can’t you smell it—like hot +tobacco and sandal-wood?” + +“What, is that the stack?” she asked. + +“Yes, it’s always like that when it’s picked damp.” + +The conversation was restarted, but did not flourish. When they turned +on to a narrow path by the side of the field he went ahead. Leaning +over the hedge, he pulled three sprigs of honeysuckle, yellow as +butter, full of scent; then he waited for her. She was hanging her +head, looking in the hedge-bottom. He presented her with the flowers +without speaking. She bent forward, inhaled the rich fragrance, and +looked up at him over the blossoms with her beautiful, beseeching blue +eyes. He smiled gently to her. + +“Isn’t it nice?” he said. “Aren’t they fine bits?” + +She took them without answering, and put one piece carefully in her +dress. It was quite against her rule to wear a flower. He took his +place by her side. + +“I always like the gold-green of cut fields,” he said. “They seem to +give off sunshine even when the sky’s greyer than a tabby cat.” + +She laughed, instinctively putting out her hand towards the glowing +field on her right. + +They entered the larch-wood. There the chill wind was changed into +sound. Like a restless insect he hovered about her, like a butterfly +whose antennae flicker and twitch sensitively as they gather +intelligence, touching the aura, as it were, of the female. He was +exceedingly delicate in his handling of her. + +The path was cut windingly through the lofty, dark, and closely serried +trees, which vibrated like chords under the soft bow of the wind. Now +and again he would look down passages between the trees—narrow pillared +corridors, dusky as if webbed across with mist. All round was a +twilight, thickly populous with slender, silent trunks. Helena stood +still, gazing up at the tree-tops where the bow of the wind was drawn, +causing slight, perceptible quivering. Byrne walked on without her. At +a bend in the path he stood, with his hand on the roundness of a +larch-trunk, looking back at her, a blue fleck in the brownness of +congregated trees. She moved very slowly down the path. + +“I might as well not exist, for all she is aware of me,” he said to +himself bitterly. Nevertheless, when she drew near he said brightly: + +“Have you noticed how the thousands of dry twigs between the trunks +make a brown mist, a brume?” + +She looked at him suddenly as if interrupted. + +“H’m? Yes, I see what you mean.” + +She smiled at him, because of his bright boyish tone and manner. + +“That’s the larch fog,” he laughed. + +“Yes,” she said, “you see it in pictures. I had not noticed it before.” + +He shook the tree on which his hand was laid. + +“It laughs through its teeth,” he said, smiling, playing with +everything he touched. + +As they went along she caught swiftly at her hat; then she stooped, +picking up a hat-pin of twined silver. She laughed to herself as if +pleased by a coincidence. + +“Last year,” she said, “the larch-fingers stole both my pins—the same +ones.” + +He looked at her, wondering how much he was filling the place of a +ghost with warmth. He thought of Siegmund, and seemed to see him +swinging down the steep bank out of the wood exactly as he himself was +doing at the moment, with Helena stepping carefully behind. He always +felt a deep sympathy and kinship with Siegmund; sometimes he thought he +hated Helena. + +They had emerged at the head of a shallow valley—one of those wide +hollows in the North Downs that are like a great length of tapestry +held loosely by four people. It was raining. Byrne looked at the dark +blue dots rapidly appearing on the sleeves of Helena’s dress. They +walked on a little way. The rain increased. Helena looked about for +shelter. + +“Here,” said Byrne—“here is our tent—a black tartar’s—ready pitched.” + +He stooped under the low boughs of a very large yew tree that stood +just back from the path. She crept after him. It was really a very good +shelter. Byrne sat on the ledge of a root, Helena beside him. He looked +under the flap of the black branches down the valley. The grey rain was +falling steadily; the dark hollow under the tree was immersed in the +monotonous sound of it. In the open, where the bright young corn shone +intense with wet green, was a fold of sheep. Exposed in a large pen on +the hillside, they were moving restlessly; now and again came the +“tong-ting-tong” of a sheep-bell. First the grey creatures huddled in +the high corner, then one of them descended and took shelter by the +growing corn lowest down. The rest followed, bleating and pushing each +other in their anxiety to reach the place of desire, which was no whit +better than where they stood before. + +“That’s like us all,” said Byrne whimsically. “We’re all penned out on +a wet evening, but we think, if only we could get where someone else +is, it would be deliciously cosy.” + +Helena laughed swiftly, as she always did when he became whimsical and +fretful. He sat with his head bent down, smiling with his lips, but his +eyes melancholy. She put her hand out to him. He took it without +apparently observing it, folding his own hand over it, and +unconsciously increasing the pressure. + +“You are cold,” he said. + +“Only my hands, and they usually are,” she replied gently. + +“And mine are generally warm.” + +“I know that,” she said. “It’s almost the only warmth I get now—your +hands. They really are wonderfully warm and close-touching.” + +“As good as a baked potato,” he said. + +She pressed his hand, scolding him for his mockery. + +“So many calories per week—isn’t that how we manage it?” he asked. “On +credit?” + +She put her other hand on his, as if beseeching him to forgo his irony, +which hurt her. They sat silent for some time. The sheep broke their +cluster, and began to straggle back to the upper side of the pen. + +“Tong-tong, tong,” went the forlorn bell. The rain waxed louder. + +Byrne was thinking of the previous week. He had gone to Helena’s home +to read German with her as usual. She wanted to understand Wagner in +his own language. + +In each of the arm-chairs, reposing across the arms, was a violin-case. +He had sat down on the edge of one seat in front of the sacred fiddle. +Helena had come quickly and removed the violin. + +“I shan’t knock it—it is all right,” he had said, protesting. + +This was Siegmund’s violin, which Helena had managed to purchase, and +Byrne was always ready to yield its precedence. + +“It was all right,” he repeated. + +“But you were not,” she had replied gently. + +Since that time his heart had beat quick with excitement. Now he sat in +a little storm of agitation, of which nothing was betrayed by his +gloomy, pondering expression, but some of which was communicated to +Helena by the increasing pressure of his hand, which adjusted itself +delicately in a stronger and stronger stress over her fingers and palm. +By some movement he became aware that her hand was uncomfortable. He +relaxed. She sighed, as if restless and dissatisfied. She wondered what +he was thinking of. He smiled quietly. + +“The Babes in the Wood,” he teased. + +Helena laughed, with a sound of tears. In the tree overhead some bird +began to sing, in spite of the rain, a broken evening song. + +“That little beggar sees it’s a hopeless case, so he reminds us of +heaven. But if he’s going to cover us with yew-leaves, he’s set himself +a job.” + +Helena laughed again, and shivered. He put his arm round her, drawing +her nearer his warmth. After this new and daring move neither spoke for +a while. + +“The rain continues,” he said. + +“And will do,” she added, laughing. + +“Quite content,” he said. + +The bird overhead chirruped loudly again. + +“‘Strew on us roses, roses,’” quoted Byrne, adding after a while, in +wistful mockery: “‘And never a sprig of yew’—eh?” + +Helena made a small sound of tenderness and comfort for him, and +weariness for herself. She let herself sink a little closer against +him. + +“Shall it not be so—no yew?” he murmured. + +He put his left hand, with which he had been breaking larch-twigs, on +her chilled wrist. Noticing that his fingers were dirty, he held them +up. + +“I shall make marks on you,” he said. + +“They will come off,” she replied. + +“Yes, we come clean after everything. Time scrubs all sorts of scars +off us.” + +“Some scars don’t seem to go,” she smiled. + +And she held out her other arm, which had been pressed warm against his +side. There, just above the wrist, was the red sun-inflammation from +last year. Byrne regarded it gravely. + +“But it’s wearing off—even that,” he said wistfully. + +Helena put her arms found him under his coat. She was cold. He felt a +hot wave of joy suffuse him. Almost immediately she released him, and +took off her hat. + +“That is better,” he said. + +“I was afraid of the pins,” said she. + +“I’ve been dodging them for the last hour,” he said, laughing, as she +put her arms under his coat again for warmth. + +She laughed, and, making a small, moaning noise, as if of weariness and +helplessness, she sank her head on his chest. He put down his cheek +against hers. + +“I want rest and warmth,” she said, in her dull tones. + +“All right!” he murmured. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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