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diff --git a/9498-h/9498-h.htm b/9498-h/9498-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fcf36a3 --- /dev/null +++ b/9498-h/9498-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13755 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Trespasser, by D. H. Lawrence</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Trespasser, by D. H. Lawrence</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Trespasser</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: D. H. Lawrence</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 6, 2003 [eBook #9498]<br /> +[Most recently updated: October 14, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Joshua Hutchinson and PG Distributed Proofreaders</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>The Trespasser</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by D. H. Lawrence</h2> + +<h3>1912</h3> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI.</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>I</h2> + +<p> +“Take off that mute, do!” cried Louisa, snatching her fingers from the piano +keys, and turning abruptly to the violinist. +</p> + +<p> +Helena looked slowly from her music. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have only lately submitted to many things,” replied Helena, who seemed weary +and stupefied, but still sententious. Louisa drooped from her bristling +defiance. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate,” she said, scolding in tones too naked with love, I don’t like +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on from <i>Allegro</i>,” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Helena broke off the music, and dropped her arm in irritable +resignation. Louisa looked round from the piano, surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” she cried, “wasn’t it all right?” +</p> + +<p> +Helena laughed wearily. +</p> + +<p> +“It was all wrong,” she answered, as she put her violin tenderly to rest. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m sorry I did so badly,” said Louisa in a huff. She loved Helena +passionately. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t do badly at all,” replied her friend, in the same tired, apathetic +tone. “It was I.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Play some Chopin, Louisa.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Play the mazurkas,” repeated Helena calmly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“They are inflamed still” said the young man. +</p> + +<p> +She glanced up suddenly, her blue eyes, usually so heavy and tired, lighting up +with a small smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite hot,” she smiled, again caressing her sun-scalded arm with +peculiar joy. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled at him again, almost pitying, then put her mouth lovingly on the +burn. +</p> + +<p> +“It comes out every evening like this,” she said softly, with curious joy. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked up at him, suddenly cold. +</p> + +<p> +“I! I never think of it,” she answered briefly, with a kind of sneer. +</p> + +<p> +The young man’s blood ran back from her at her acid tone. But the mortification +was physical only. Smiling quickly, gently—” +</p> + +<p> +“Never?” he re-echoed. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence between them for some moments, whilst Louisa continued to +play the piano for their benefit. At last: +</p> + +<p> +“Drat it,” she exclaimed, flouncing round on the piano-stool. +</p> + +<p> +The two looked up at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye did run well—what hath hindered you?” laughed Byrne. +</p> + +<p> +“You!” cried Louisa. “Oh, I can’t play any more,” she added, dropping her arms +along her skirt pathetically. Helena laughed quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh I can’t, Helen!” pleaded Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” said Helena, laughing briefly, “you are really under <i>no</i> +obligation <i>whatever</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At last Helena shivered slightly in her chair, though did not change her +position. She sat motionless. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you make coffee, Louisa?” she asked. Louisa lifted herself, looked at her +friend, and stretched slightly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she groaned voluptuously. “This is so comfortable!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go,” she drawled, almost groaning with voluptuousness and appealing +love. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the coffee?” she asked, affecting the dullness of lethargy. She was +full of small affectations, being consumed with uneasy love. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, my dear,” replied Helena, “it is in its usual place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—o-o-oh!” yawned Louisa, and she dragged herself out. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“After all,” said Byrne, when the door was closed, “if you’re alive you’ve got +to live.” +</p> + +<p> +Helena burst into a titter of amusement at this sudden remark. +</p> + +<p> +“Wherefore?” she asked indulgently. +</p> + +<p> +“Because there’s no such thing as passive existence,” he replied, grinning. +</p> + +<p> +She curled her lip in amused indulgence of this very young man. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see it at all,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then”—and again there was the touch of a sneer—“if I can’t help myself, +why trouble, my friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because—because I suppose <i>I</i> can’t help myself—if it bothers me, it +does. You see, I”—he smiled brilliantly—“am April.” +</p> + +<p> +She paid very little attention to him, but began in a peculiar reedy, metallic +tone, that set his nerves quivering: +</p> + +<p> +“But I am not a bare tree. All my dead leaves, they hang to me—and—and go +through a kind of <i>danse macabre</i>—” +</p> + +<p> +“But you bud underneath—like beech,” he said quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, my friend,” she said coldly, “I am too tired to bud.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +She ignored him again because of his presumption. He waited awhile, then broke +out once more. +</p> + +<p> +“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….” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You stretch your hands blindly to the dead; you look backwards. No, you never +touch the thing,” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +He frowned, and his eyes dilated. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“You are merciless, you know, Cecil,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“And I will be,” protested Byrne, flinging his hand at her. She laughed softly, +wearily. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>II</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The clock downstairs struck two. +</p> + +<p> +“I must get to sleep,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am fearfully tired,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +But that was persuasive. When he was undressed he sat in his pyjamas for some +time, rapidly beating his fingers on his knee. +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty-eight years old,” he said to himself, “and disconsolate as a child!” He +began to muse of the morrow. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Helena stood fingering the score of <i>Pelléas</i>. When Vera had gone, she +asked, in the peculiar tone that made Siegmund shiver: +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you consider the music of <i>Pelléas</i> cold?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are so tired, dear. You must come away with me and rest, the first week in +August.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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…. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be going away tomorrow for a few days’ holiday.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am nothing, I am nothing,” she said to herself. She lay quite rigid for a +time. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“God strike her dead! Mother of God, strike her down!” she said aloud, in a low +tone. She hated Helena. +</p> + +<p> +Irene, who lay with her mother, woke up and began to question her. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>III</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Victory</i> shook her myriad pointed flags of yellow and +scarlet; the straight old houses of the quay passed by. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>here!</i>” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it a dream now, dear?” he whispered. Helena clasped him tightly, shuddering +because of the delicious suffusing of his warmth through her. +</p> + +<p> +Almost immediately they heard the grinding of the brakes. +</p> + +<p> +“Here we are, then!” exclaimed Helena, dropping into her conventional, cheerful +manner at once. She put straight her hat, while he gathered his luggage. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he asked, listening uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +Helena looked up at him, from pouring out the tea. His little anxious look of +distress amused her. +</p> + +<p> +“The noise, you mean? Merely the fog-horn, dear—not Wotan’s wrath, nor +Siegfried’s dragon….” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you, it <i>is</i> only a fog-horn,” she laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. But it is a depressing sort of sound.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yet it is very much like the fog-horn,” she said, curiously interested. +</p> + +<p> +“This time next week, Helena!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She suddenly went heavy, and stretched across to clasp his hand as it lay upon +the table. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be calling to you from Cornwall,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There is <i>no</i> next week,” she declared, with great cheerfulness. “There +is only the present.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Now he wanted to blind himself with her, to blaze up all his past and future in +a passion worth years of living. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we go out, or are you too tired? No, you are tired—you are very tired,” +said Helena. +</p> + +<p> +She stood by his chair, looking down on him tenderly. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he replied, smiling brilliantly at her, and stretching his handsome limbs +in relief—“no, not at all tired now.” +</p> + +<p> +Helena continued to look down on him in quiet, covering tenderness. But she +quailed before the brilliant, questioning gaze of his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are sure you’re not too tired?” she reiterated. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I like the mist,” he said, pressing her hand in his pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t dislike it,” she replied, shrinking nearer to him. +</p> + +<p> +“It puts us together by ourselves,” he said. She plodded alongside, bowing her +head, not replying. He did not mind her silence. +</p> + +<p> +“It couldn’t have happened better for us than this mist,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed curiously, almost with a sound of tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she asked, half tenderly, half bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing else but you, and for you there is nothing else but me—look!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the pitch?” asked Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“Where it is horizontal? It slides up a chromatic scale,” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but the settled pitch—is it about E?” +</p> + +<p> +“E!” exclaimed Siegmund. “More like F.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, listen!” said Helena. +</p> + +<p> +They stood still and waited till there came the long booing of the fog-horn. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” exclaimed Siegmund, imitating the sound. “That is not E.” He repeated +the sound. “It is F.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely it is E,” persisted Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“Even F sharp,” he rejoined, humming the note. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed, and told him to climb the chromatic scale. +</p> + +<p> +“But you agree?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +The fog was cold. It seemed to rob them of their courage to talk. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the note in <i>Tristan</i>?” Helena made an effort to ask. +</p> + +<p> +“That is not the same,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come away, dear,” she pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +He would, then, forgo the few consummate days! It was bitterness to her to +think so. +</p> + +<p> +“Come away, dear!” she repeated, drawing him slowly to the path. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not afraid?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Not afraid, no….” Her voice had that peculiar, reedy, harsh quality that made +him shiver. +</p> + +<p> +“It is too easy a way,” he said satirically. +</p> + +<p> +She did not take in his meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed, and took her in his arms, kissing her very closely. +</p> + +<p> +They walked on joyfully, locking behind them the doors of forgetfulness. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the music of it?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +She glanced at him. His eyelids were half lowered, his mouth slightly open, as +if in ironic rhapsody. +</p> + +<p> +“Of what, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“What music do you think holds the best interpretation of sunset?” +</p> + +<p> +His skin was gold, his real mood was intense. She revered him for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” she said quietly; and she rested her head against his +shoulder, looking out west. +</p> + +<p> +There was a space of silence, while Siegmund dreamed on. +</p> + +<p> +“A Beethoven symphony—the one—” and he explained to her. +</p> + +<p> +She was not satisfied, but leaned against him, making her choice. The sunset +hung steady, she could scarcely perceive a change. +</p> + +<p> +“The Grail music in <i>Lohengrin</i>,” she decided. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>IV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You will be cold. Put your hands under my coat,” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“See! I can’t,” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed short, and pressed her closer. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is cold and wet, dear; we ought to go,” she coaxed determinedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Soon,” he said thickly. +</p> + +<p> +She sighed, waited a moment, then said very gently, as if she were loath to +take him from his pleasure: +</p> + +<p> +“Siegmund, I am cold.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a reproach in this which angered him. +</p> + +<p> +“Cold!” he exclaimed. “But you are warm with me—” +</p> + +<p> +“But my feet are out on the grass, dear, and they are like wet pebbles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh dear!” he said. “Why didn’t you give them me to warm?” He leaned forward, +and put his hand on her shoes. +</p> + +<p> +“They are very cold,” he said. “We must hurry and make them warm.” +</p> + +<p> +When they rose, her feet were so numbed she could hardly stand. She clung to +Siegmund, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you had told me before,” he said. “I ought to have known….” +</p> + +<p> +Vexed with himself, he put his arm round her, and they set off home. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>V</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Helena left the room to change her dress. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be back before Mrs Curtiss brings in the tray. There is the Nietzsche +I brought—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Just as you will,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +Still she waited, and still he would not look at her. Something troubled him, +she thought. He was foreign to her. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At last she tinkled the bell for supper to be cleared. Meanwhile, restlessly, +she played fragments of Wagner on the piano. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you want anything else?” asked the smiling old landlady. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing at all, thanks,” said Helena, with decision. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! then I think I will go to bed when I’ve washed the dishes. You will put +the lamp out, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am well used to a lamp,” smiled Helena. “We use them always at home.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, dear—good-night, sir. I will leave you. You will not be long, +dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, we shall not be long. Mr MacNair is very evidently tired out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—yes. It is very tiring, London.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I read to you?” she asked bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +He sounded so indifferent, she could scarcely refrain from crying. She went and +stood in front of him, looking down on him heavily. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, dear?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You,” he replied, smiling with a little grimace. +</p> + +<p> +“Why me?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I let her out?” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“Do!” said Helena, slipping from his knee. “She goes out when the nights are +fine.” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund rose to set free the tabby. Hearing the front door open, Mrs Curtiss +called from upstairs: “Is that you, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have just let Kitty out,” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, thank you. Good night!” They heard the old lady lock her bedroom door. +</p> + +<p> +Helena was kneeling on the hearth. Siegmund softly closed the door, then waited +a moment. His heart was beating fast. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we sit by firelight?” he asked tentatively. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he pleaded softly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I not uneasy?” she had said, to make him speak. He had smiled gently. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we go out a moment, Siegmund?” she asked fretfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, if you wish to,” he answered, altogether willing. He was filled with an +easiness that would comply with her every wish. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the finest night I have seen,” said Siegmund. Helena’s eyes suddenly +filled with tears, at his simplicity of happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“I like the moon on the water,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I feel at home here,” he said; “as if I had come home where I was bred.” +</p> + +<p> +She pressed his hand hard, clinging to him. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Helena did not know. Nor did she know what he meant. But she felt something of +the harmony. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“The key of the castle,” he said. He put his face against hers, and felt on his +cheek the smart of her tears. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all very grandiose,” he said comfortably, “but it does for tonight, all +this that I say.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true for ever,” she declared. +</p> + +<p> +“In so far as tonight is eternal,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>VI</h2> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The rock before him was white and wet, like himself; it had a pool of clear +water, with shells and one rose anemone. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Feeling chill, he wiped himself quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If I was giving her myself, I wouldn’t want that blemish on me,” he thought. +</p> + +<p> +He wiped the blood from the wound. It was nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You have bathed?” she said, smiling, and looking at his damp, ruffled black +hair. She shrank from his eyes, but he was quite unconscious. +</p> + +<p> +“You have not bathed!” he said; then bent to kiss her. She smelt the brine in +his hair. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I bathe later,” she replied. “But what—” +</p> + +<p> +Hesitating, she touched the towel, then looked up at him anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“It <i>is</i> blood?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I grazed my thigh—nothing at all,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure?” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“The towel looks bad enough,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s an alarmist,” he laughed. +</p> + +<p> +She looked in concern at him, then turned aside. +</p> + +<p> +“Breakfast is quite ready,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“And I for breakfast—but shall I do?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I would not trouble,” she said almost sarcastically. +</p> + +<p> +Whistling, he threw the towel on a chair. +</p> + +<p> +“How did you sleep?” she asked gravely, as she watched him beginning to eat. +</p> + +<p> +“Like the dead—solid,” he replied”. “And you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“This is very good,” she said to herself. “This is eternally cool, and clean +and fresh. It could never be spoiled by satiety.” +</p> + +<p> +She tried to wash herself with the white and blue morning, to clear away the +soiling of the last night’s passion. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Will it be fine all day?” he asked, when a cloud came over. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I like a bare blue sky,” he said; “sunshine that you seem to stir about as you +walk.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is warm enough here, even for you,” she smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right—but a vilely ugly railing!” exclaimed Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, they’d have to fence in Lord Tennyson’s white marble,” said Helena, rather +indefinitely. +</p> + +<p> +He interpreted her according to his own idea. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he did belittle great things, didn’t he?” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“Tennyson!” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Not peacocks and princesses, but the bigger things.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t say so,” she declared. +</p> + +<p> +He sounded indeterminate, but was not really so. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She watched the beautiful birds, heard the pleading of Siegmund, and she +thrilled with pleasure, toying with his keen anguish. +</p> + +<p> +Helena came smiling to Siegmund, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“They look so fine down there.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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”. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It must be a love of round numbers,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt,” she laughed. He took the thing so seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“Or of exaggeration,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>en route</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, that one with the greyish sails—” Siegmund was saying. +</p> + +<p> +“Like a housewife of forty going placidly round with the duster—yes?” +interrupted Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a schooner. You see her four sails, and—” +</p> + +<p> +He continued to classify the shipping, until he was interrupted by the wicked +laughter of Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“That is right, I am sure,” he protested. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The clouds are coming,” he said regretfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but the wind is quite strong enough for them,” she answered, +</p> + +<p> +“Look at the shadows—like blots floating away. Don’t they devour the sunshine?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite warm enough here,” she said, nestling in to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but the sting is missing. I like to feel the warmth biting in.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I do not. To be cosy is enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>VII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” he said, “they are saluting the Czar. Poor beggar!” +</p> + +<p> +“I was afraid they would wake you,” she smiled. +</p> + +<p> +They listened again to the hollow, dull sound of salutes from across the water +and the downs. +</p> + +<p> +The day had gone grey. They decided to walk, down below, to the next bay. +</p> + +<p> +“The tide is coming in,” said Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“But this broad strip of sand hasn’t been wet for months. It’s as soft as +pepper,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I will rest awhile,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, come along,” he begged. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” she laughed, “there is tons of this shingle to buttress us from the +sea.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at the waves curving and driving maliciously at the boulders. It +would be ridiculous to be trapped. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at this black wood,” she said. “Does the sea really char it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us get round the corner,” he begged. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Siegmund, the sea is not so anxious to take us,” she said ironically. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“This is fine, Siegmund!” she said, halting and facing west. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you really like to travel beyond the end?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +She looked round quickly, thrilled, then answered as if in rebuke: +</p> + +<p> +“This is a fine place. I should like to stay here an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then? Oh, then, I suppose, it would be tea-time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tea on brine and pink anemones, with Daddy Neptune.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked sharply at the outjutting capes. The sea did foam perilously near +their bases. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it <i>is</i> rather risky,” she said; and she turned, began silently +to clamber forwards. +</p> + +<p> +He followed; she should set the pace. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no doubt there’s plenty of room, really,” he said. “The sea only looks +near.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund exulted. At last she was moulded to him in pure passion. +</p> + +<p> +They stood folded thus for some time. Then Helena raised her burning face, and +relaxed. She was throbbing with strange elation and satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it remarkable!” she exclaimed joyously. “The sea must be very, very +gentle—and very kind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes,” smiled Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It would not have treated <i>you</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +<i>pizzicato</i>!—but the sea—” +</p> + +<p> +Helena’s speech was often difficult to render into plain terms. She was not +lucid. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +There were three children on the beach. Helena had handed him back the +senseless bauble, not able to throw it away. Being a father: +</p> + +<p> +“I will give it to the children,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She looked up at him, loved him for the thought. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like this? I found it down there,” said Siegmund, offering her the +bulb. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with grave blue eyes and accepted his gift. Evidently she was +not going to say anything. +</p> + +<p> +“The sea brought it all the way from the mainland without breaking it,” said +Helena, with the interesting intonation some folk use to children. +</p> + +<p> +The girl looked at her. +</p> + +<p> +“The waves put it out of their lap on to some seaweed with such careful +fingers—” +</p> + +<p> +The child’s eyes brightened. +</p> + +<p> +“The tide-line is full of treasures,” said Helena, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +The child answered her smile a little. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund had walked away. +</p> + +<p> +“What beautiful eyes she had!” said Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>VIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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”. +</p> + +<p> +As they passed the beeches and were near home, Helena said, to try him, and to +strike a last blow for her pride: +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder what next Monday will bring us.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +The hours that would be purely their own came too slowly for her. +</p> + +<p> +That night she met his passion with love. It was not his passion she wanted, +actually. But she desired that he should want <i>her</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When Siegmund was holding her hand, he said, softly laughing: +</p> + +<p> +“You have come out of the water very beautiful this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. She was not beautiful, but she felt so at that moment. She glanced +up at him, full of love and gratefulness. +</p> + +<p> +“And you,” she murmured, in a still tone, as if it were almost sacrilegiously +unnecessary to say it. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I found a little white bay, just like you—a virgin bay. I had to swim there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she said, very interested in him, not in the fact. +</p> + +<p> +“It seemed just like you. Many things seem like you,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed again in her joyous fashion, and the reed-like vibration came into +her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw the sun through the cliffs, and the sea, and you,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw the sunshine in you,” repeated Helena quietly, looking at him with her +eyes heavy with meaning. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed again, not understanding, but feeling she meant love. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but you have altered everything,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>IX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Artists are supremely unfortunate persons,” she announced. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You look now as if you belonged to the sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do; and some day I shall go back to it,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” said Helena, holding out her hand. +</p> + +<p> +He rose somewhat reluctantly from his large, fruitful inertia. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>X</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think we had better be mounting the cliffs?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should we?” she asked lightly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he said very gently. “You are only six years old today.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now put your stockings on,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But my feet are wet.” She laughed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I envy the savages their free feet,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no broken glass in the wilderness—or there used not to be,” he +replied. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Tiss can’t fall now, can she, dadda? Shall I put her down?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, let her have a run,” said the father. +</p> + +<p> +Very carefully she lowered the kitten which she had carried clasped to her +bosom. The mite was bewildered and scared. It turned round pathetically. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, Tissie; you’re all right,” said the child. “Go on; have a run on the +sand.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Helena glanced at Siegmund, and her eyes were shining with pity. He was +watching the kitten and smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Crying because things are too big, and it can’t take them in,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But look how frightened it is,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“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….” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed very quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“But why?” she exclaimed. “Why should you want putting in a pinafore?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t,” he laughed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to absorb it all,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +When at last they turned away: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Helena slowly; “one can recall the details, but never the +atmosphere.” +</p> + +<p> +He pondered a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Without troubling to understand—she was inclined to think it verbiage—she made +a small sound of assent. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>XI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We must go to the left,” said Helena. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“There will be a path through it,” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +But when they arrived there was no path. They were confronted by a tall, +impenetrable growth of gorse, taller than Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay here,” said he, “while I look for a way through. I am afraid you will be +tired.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He came, in his grey clothes almost invisible. But she felt him coming. +</p> + +<p> +“No good,” he said, “no vestige of a path. Not a rabbit-run.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then we will sit down awhile,” said she calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Here on this mole-hill,’” he quoted mockingly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Helena turned to him, leaning her hand on his thigh. +</p> + +<p> +“What day is it, Siegmund?” she asked, in a joyous, wondering tone. He laughed, +understanding, and kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“But really,” she insisted, “I would not have believed the labels could have +fallen off everything like this.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed again. She still leaned towards him, her weight on her hand, +stopping the flow in the artery down his thigh. +</p> + +<p> +“The days used to walk in procession like seven marionettes, each in order and +costume, going endlessly round.” She laughed, amused at the idea. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Helena lay beside him, half upon him, sad with bliss. +</p> + +<p> +“You must write a symphony of this—of us,” she said, prompted by a disciple’s +vanity. +</p> + +<p> +“Some time,” he answered. “Later, when I have time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Later,” she murmured—“later than what?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder how it is you have such a fine natural perfume,” he said, always in +the same abstract, inquiring tone of happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t all women?” she replied, and the peculiar penetrating twang of a brass +reed was again in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are so strange,” she murmured tenderly, hardly able to control her voice +to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe,” he said slowly, “I can see the stars moving through your hair. No, +keep still, <i>you</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did well to ask you to come?” she inquired wistfully. He turned to her. +</p> + +<p> +“As wise as God for the minute,” he replied softly. “I think a few furtive +angels brought us here—smuggled us in.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you are glad?” she asked. He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Carpe diem</i>,” he said. “We have plucked a beauty, my dear. With this +rose in my coat I dare go to hell or anywhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why hell, Siegmund?” she asked in displeasure. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it is the <i>postero</i>. In everything else I’m a failure, Helena. +But,” he laughed, “this day of ours is a rose not many men have plucked.” +</p> + +<p> +She kissed him passionately, beginning to cry in a quick, noiseless fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter, Helena?” he murmured. “What does it matter? We are here +yet.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Helena?” he asked at last. “Why should you cry?” +</p> + +<p> +She pressed her face in his breast, and said in a muffled, unrecognizable +voice: +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t leave me, will you, Siegmund?” +</p> + +<p> +“How could I? How should I?” he murmured soothingly. She lifted her face +suddenly and pressed on him a fierce kiss. +</p> + +<p> +“How could I leave you?” he repeated, and she heard his voice waking, the grip +coming into his arms, and she was glad. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Tiefe Stille herrscht im Wasser<br/> +Ohne Regung ruht das Meer … +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Die Luft ist kühl, und es dunkelt,<br/> +Und ruhig fliesst der Rhein. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +She liked Heine best of all: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Wie Träume der Kindheit seh’ ich es flimmern<br/> +Auf deinem wogenden Wellengebiet,<br/> +Und alte Erinnerung erzählt mir auf’s Neue<br/> +Von all dem lieben herrlichen Spielzeug,<br/> +Von all den blinkenden Weihnachtsgaben…. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Aus alten Märchen winket es<br/> +Hervor mit weisser Hand,<br/> +Da singt es und da klingt es<br/> +Von einem Zauberland. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Turn your head,” she told him, when she had finished the verse, “and look at +the moon.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘<i>Die grossen Blumen schmachten</i>,’” 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 +<i>Zauberland</i>, Siegmund—this is the magic land.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘<i>Und Liebesweisen tönen</i>’-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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When she came to herself she sighed deeply. She woke to the exquisite heaving +of his life beneath her. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” she said gently, when she knew he was restored. “Shall we go?” +</p> + +<p> +He rose, with difficulty gathering his strength. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>XII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he asked himself in wonder. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Lord!” he said to himself. “I wonder what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then he continued vaguely wondering, recalling the sensation of wretched +sickness which sometimes follows drunkenness, thinking of the times when he had +fallen ill. +</p> + +<p> +“But I am not like that,” he said, “because I don’t feel tremulous. I am sure +my hand is steady.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I think this is the right way,” said Helena, and they set off again, as +if gaily. +</p> + +<p> +“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—“<i>l’agonie</i>”. But his mother had seen and had cried aloud, which +suddenly caused him to struggle with all his soul to spare her her suffering. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly it is like that,” he said. “Certainly it is rather deathly. I wonder +how it is.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he reviewed the last hour. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe we are lost!” Helena interrupted him. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No. See”—her voice was reeded with restrained emotion—“we have certainly not +been along this bare path which dips up and down.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +So he struggled to diagnose his case of splendour and sickness. He reviewed his +hour of passion with Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” he said to himself for the last time, “I suppose living too +intensely kills you, more or less.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We certainly did not come this way before,” she said triumphantly. The idea of +being lost delighted her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We may be on the road to Newport,” said Helena presently, “and the distance is +ten miles.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure this is the right way?” he whispered to her. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>XIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund was gazing oversea in a half-stupid way, when he heard a voice beside +him say: +</p> + +<p> +“Where have they come from; do you know, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +He turned, saw a fair, slender man of some thirty-five years standing beside +him and smiling faintly at the battleships. +</p> + +<p> +“The men-of-war? There are a good many at Spithead,” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +The other glanced negligently into his face. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not an Anarchist, I hope?” he said jestingly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” replied Siegmund, who, troubled by the other’s penetrating +gaze, had not expected so trivial a question. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose the newspaper will tell us?” said the man. +</p> + +<p> +Sure to,” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t seen it this morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not since Saturday.” +</p> + +<p> +The swift blue eyes of the man dilated. He looked curiously at Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not alone on your holiday?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” Siegmund did not like this—he gazed over the sea in displeasure. +</p> + +<p> +“I live here—at least for the present—name, Hampson—” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, weren’t you one of the first violins at the Savoy fifteen years back?” +asked Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund looked at the man in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Stare beyond it, you mean?” asked Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund looked at him very intently. This Hampson seemed to express something +in his own soul. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by ‘leak’?” asked Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, to use your metaphor, I’m not tired of the House—if you mean Life,” said +Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not tired of the House, but of your own particular room-say, suite of +rooms—” +</p> + +<p> +“Tomorrow I am turned out of this ‘blue room’,” said Siegmund with a wry smile. +The other looked at him seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Lord!” exclaimed Hampson; then: “Do you remember Flaubert’s saint, who +laid naked against a leper? I could <i>not</i> do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I,” shuddered Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“But you’ve got to-or something near it!” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund looked at the other with frightened, horrified eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“What of yourself?” he said, resentfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve funked-ran away from my leper, and now am eating my heart out, and +staring from the window at the dark.” +</p> + +<p> +“But can’t you <i>do</i> something?” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +The other man laughed with amusement, throwing his head back and showing his +teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t ask you what <i>your</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund looked at the other man with baffled, anxious eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and what then?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“What then? A craving for intense life is nearly as deadly as any other +craving. You become a <i>concentré</i>, you feed your normal flame with oxygen, +and it devours your tissue. The soulful ladies of romance are always +semi-transparent.” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“At least, I am quite opaque,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The other glanced over his easy, mature figure and strong throat. +</p> + +<p> +“Not altogether,” said Hampson. “And you, I should think, are one whose flame +goes nearly out, when the stimulant is lacking.” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund glanced again at him, startled. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re telling me very plainly what I am and am not,” said Siegmund, laughing +rather sarcastically. He did not like it. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s hardly so in my case,” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +Hampson eyed him critically. +</p> + +<p> +“Say one woman; it’s enough,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund gazed, musing, over the sea. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“She can’t live without us, but she destroys us. These deep, interesting women +don’t want <i>us</i>; 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think it’s wrong to get like it?” asked Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund pondered a little…. +</p> + +<p> +“You make me feel—as if I were loose, and a long way off from myself,” he said +slowly. +</p> + +<p> +The young man smiled, then looked down at the wall, where his own hands lay +white and fragile, showing the blue veins. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked, with a faint smile, at Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund looked at him with awe-stricken eyes. The frail, swift man, with his +intensely living eyes, laughed suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I like the heat,” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“So do I.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>XIV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +A late, harsh blackbird smote him with her wings,<br/> +As through the glade, dim in the dark, she flew…. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +And now she takes the scissors on her thumb …<br/> +Oh then, no more unto my lattice come. +</p> + +<p> +“H’m!” she said, “I really don’t know whether I like that or not.” +</p> + +<p> +Therefore she read the piece again before she looked down the road. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Her heart stood still as she imagined this. +</p> + +<p> +“But what nonsense! I like these verses <i>very</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have kept you waiting,” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I was reading, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +She would not admit her impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been talking,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Talking!” she exclaimed in slight displeasure. “Have you found an acquaintance +even here?” +</p> + +<p> +“A fellow who was quite close friends in Savoy days; he made me feel queer-sort +of <i>Doppelgänger</i>, he was.” +</p> + +<p> +Helena glanced up swiftly and curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“In what way?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +They went into the house to breakfast. She watched him helping himself to the +scarlet and green salad. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Curtiss,” she said, in rather reedy tone, “has been very motherly to me +this morning; oh, very motherly!” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund, who was in a warm, gay mood, shrank up. +</p> + +<p> +“What, has she been saying something about last night?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Because we weren’t in till about eleven?” said Siegmund, also with sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +“I mustn’t do it again. Oh no, I mustn’t do it again, really.” +</p> + +<p> +“For fear of alarming the old lady?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You know, dear, it troubles <i>me</i> a good deal … but if I were your +<i>mother</i>, I don’t know <i>how</i> I should feel,’” she quoted. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t <i>mind</i> in the least,” she said. “The poor old woman has her +opinions, and I mine.” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund brooded a little. +</p> + +<p> +“I know I’m a moral coward,” he said bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense” she replied. Then, with a little heat: “But you <i>do</i> continue +to try so hard to justify yourself, as if <i>you</i> felt you needed +justification.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Helena laughed rather plaintively. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you were so sure we were right,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He winced again. +</p> + +<p> +“In myself I am. But in the eyes of the world—” +</p> + +<p> +“If you feel so in yourself, is not that enough?” she said brutally. +</p> + +<p> +He hung his head, and slowly turned his serviette-ring. +</p> + +<p> +“What is myself?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing very definite,” she said, with a bitter laugh. +</p> + +<p> +They were silent. After a while she rose, went lovingly over to him, and put +her arms round his neck. +</p> + +<p> +“This is our last clear day, dear,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +A wave of love came over him, sweeping away all the rest. He took her in his +arms…. +</p> + +<p> +“It will be hot today,” said Helena, as they prepared to go out. +</p> + +<p> +“I felt the sun steaming in my hair as I came up,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall wear a hat—you had better do so too.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said. “I told you I wanted a sun-soaking; now I think I shall get +one.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not urge or compel him. In these matters he was old enough to choose +for himself. +</p> + +<p> +This morning they were rather silent. Each felt the tarnish on their remaining +day. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, dear,” she said, “we ought to find the little path that escaped us +last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She glanced up at him with a winsome smile, glad to hear his words. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Rather short, of strong figure, she was much more noticeably a +<i>concentrée</i> than was Siegmund. Unless definitely looking at something she +always seemed coiled within herself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Through the open-worked sleeves of her dress she could feel the sun bite +vigorously. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you had put on a hat, Siegmund,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” he laughed. “My hair is like a hood,” He ruffled it back with his hand. +The sunlight glistened on his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Helena laughed with pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +“That is really a very quaint and primitive proceeding,” she said. “It is +cruder than Theocritus.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would it?” asked Helena sceptically. +</p> + +<p> +“If I had a red face, and went to sleep as soon as I sat comfortable, I should +love it,”he said. +</p> + +<p> +“It amuses me to hear you long to be stupid,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“To have a simple, slow-moving mind and an active life is the desideratum.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it?” she asked ironically. +</p> + +<p> +“I would give anything to be like that,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“That is, not to be yourself,” she said pointedly. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed without much heartiness. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you?” she cried, with curious impatience. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +Crossing the down, scattered with dark bushes, they came directly opposite the +path through the furze. +</p> + +<p> +“There it is!” she cried, “How could we miss it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ascribe it to the fairies,” he replied, whistling the bird music out of +<i>Siegfried</i>, then pieces of <i>Tristan</i>. They talked very little. +</p> + +<p> +She was tired. When they arrived at a green, naked hollow near the cliff’s +edge, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“This shall be our house today.” +</p> + +<p> +“Welcome home!” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘And there shall be no more sea,’” she quoted to herself, she knew not +wherefrom. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is worth while to sleep,” said he, “for the sake of waking like this. I was +dreaming of huge ice-crystals.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled at him. He seemed unconscious of fate, happy and strong. She smiled +upon him almost in condescension. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to realize your dream,” she said. “This is terrible!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is really a very fine sun,” said Siegmund lightly. “I feel as if I were +almost satisfied with heat.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are having your satisfaction complete this journey,” she said, smiling; +“even a sufficiency of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” said Siegmund drowsily. “I think I am. I think this is about perfect, +don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I want nothing more and nothing different,” he continued; “and that’s the +extreme of a decent time, I should think.” +</p> + +<p> +“The extreme of a decent time!” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +But he drawled on lazily: +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve only rubbed my bread on the cheese-board until now. Now I’ve got all the +cheese—which is you, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” she said quietly to Siegmund, no longer resenting the completeness of +his happiness, which left her unnecessary to him. +</p> + +<p> +“We will leave the poor invalid in possession of our green hollow—so quiet,” +she said to herself. +</p> + +<p> +They sauntered downwards towards the bay. Helena was brooding on her own state, +after her own fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +As if in answer or in protest to her thoughts, Siegmund said: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want anything better than this, dear? Shall we come here next year, and +stay for a whole month?” +</p> + +<p> +“If there be any next year,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund did not reply. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>XV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is awfully funny,” he said. “I was <i>so</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I consider Bertram will make a handsome man,’ said my younger sister. +</p> + +<p> +“‘He’s got beautiful eyes,’ said my other sister. +</p> + +<p> +“‘And a real darling nose and chin!’ cried Beatrice. ‘If only he was more +<i>solide</i>! He is like a windmill, all limbs.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘He will fill out. Remember, he’s not quite seventeen,’ said my elder sister. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ah, he is <i>doux</i>—he is <i>câlin</i>,’ said Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I think he is rather <i>too</i> spoony for his age,’ said my elder sister. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But he’s a fine boy for all that. See how thick his knees are,’ my younger +sister chimed in. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ah, <i>si, si</i>!’ cried Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“I made a row against the door, then walked across. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Hello, is somebody in here?’ I said, as I pushed into the little +conservatory. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s the romance. I wonder how it will all end.” +</p> + +<p> +Helena laughed, and he did not detect her extreme bitterness of spirit. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come to think of it,” Siegmund continued, “I have always shirked. Whenever +I’ve been in a tight corner I’ve gone to Pater.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” she said, “marriage has been a tight corner you couldn’t get out of +to go to anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet I’m here,” he answered simply. +</p> + +<p> +The blood suffused her face and neck. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“In my life,” she said, with the fine, grating discord in her tones, “I might +say <i>always</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are so hard to get at,” said Siegmund. “And so scornful of familiar +things.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund was there. Surely he could help? He would rekindle her. But he was +straying ahead, carelessly whistling the Spring Song from <i>Die Walküre</i>. +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Siegmund!” she said in despair. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, dear? Is something wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it? Won’t you tell me what is the matter?” he pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you heard anything against us? Have I done anything? Have I said +anything? Tell me—at any rate tell me, Helena.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she became aware of someone passing and looking curiously at them. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear, someone is looking,” she pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +He drew himself up from cover. But he kept his face averted. They walked on. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, dear,” she said softly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>XVI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you thinking of?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I?” he replied. “I really don’t know. I suppose I was hardly thinking +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +She waited a while, clinging to him, then, finding some difficulty in speech, +she asked: +</p> + +<p> +“Was I very cruel, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +It was so unusual to hear her grieved and filled with humility that he drew her +close into him. +</p> + +<p> +“It was pretty bad, I suppose,” he replied. “But I should think neither of us +could help it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Someone was coming along the path. Helena let him go, shook herself free, +turned sharply aside, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we go down to the water?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you like,” he replied, putting out his hand to her. They went thus with +clasped hands down the cliff path to the beach. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +They heard the wash of a steamer crossing the bay. The water seemed populous in +the night-time, with dark, uncanny comings and goings. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund was considering. +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>was</i> the matter with you?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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….” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“….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.” +</p> + +<p> +She kissed his eyes and his brows. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes,” she murmured, in a low, grieved confession, “you lose me.” +</p> + +<p> +He gave a brief laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“I lose you!” he repeated. “You mean I lose my attraction for you, or my hold +over you, and then you—?” +</p> + +<p> +He did not finish. She made the same grievous murmuring noise over him. +</p> + +<p> +“It shall not be any more,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he replied, “since you decide it.” +</p> + +<p> +She clasped him round the chest and fondled him, distracted with pity. +</p> + +<p> +“You mustn’t be bitter,” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“Four days is enough,” he said. “In a fortnight I should be intolerable to you. +I am not masterful.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not so, Siegmund,” she said sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“I give way always,” he repeated. “And then—tonight!” +</p> + +<p> +“Tonight, tonight!” she cried in wrath. “Tonight I have been a fool!” +</p> + +<p> +“And I?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“You—what of you?” she cried. Then she became sad. “I have little perverse +feelings,” she lamented. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know how you hurt me, talking so,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her. After a moment he said: +</p> + +<p> +“You are not like other folk. ‘<i>Ihr Lascheks seid ein anderes +Geschlecht</i>.’ I thought of you when we read it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you rather have me more like the rest, or more unlike, Siegmund? Which +is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither,” he said. “You are <i>you</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: “<i>Der Tod +geht einem zur Seite, fast sichtbarlich, und jagt einem immer tiefer ins +Leben.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“This time tomorrow night,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Siegmund!” she implored. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” he laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t, dear,” she pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, I won’t.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t be tired when you go back?” Helena asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Tired!” he echoed. +</p> + +<p> +“You know how you were when you came,” she reminded him, in tones full of pity. +He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that is gone,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +With a slow, mechanical rhythm she stroked his cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“And will you be sad?” she said, hesitating. +</p> + +<p> +“Sad!” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“But will you be able to fake the old life up, happier, when you go back?” +</p> + +<p> +“The old life will take me up, I suppose,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, dear,” she said, “I have done wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good Lord—you have not!” he replied sharply, pressing back his head to look at +her, for the first time. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall have to send you back to Beatrice and the babies—tomorrow—as you are +now….” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Take no thought for the morrow.’ Be quiet, Helena!” he exclaimed as the +reality bit him. He sat up suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she asked, afraid. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Turning to Helena, he found her face white and shining as the empty moon. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>XVII</h2> + +<p> +Towards morning, Siegmund went to sleep. For four hours, until seven o’clock, +the womb of sleep received him and nourished him again. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“The careless little beggars!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>panier</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“We have been very happy together,” everything seemed to say. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund looked up into the eyes of the morning with a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very lovely,” he said, “whatever happens.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How closely familiar everything is,” he thought. “It seems almost as if the +curves of this stone were rounded to fit in my soul.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said he pitiably to himself, “it is impossible it should have hurt me. I +suppose I was careless.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He contrasted this with the kindness of the morning as he had stood on the +cliffs. +</p> + +<p> +“I was mistaken,” he said. “It was an illusion.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund thought of the futility of death: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +We are not long for music and laughter,<br/> + Love and desire and hate;<br/> +I think we have no portion in them after<br/> + We pass the gate. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I be turned out of the game?” he asked himself, rebelling. He +frowned, and answered: “Oh, Lord!—the old argument!” +</p> + +<p> +But the thought of his own expunging from the picture was very bitter. +</p> + +<p> +“Like the puff from the steamer’s funnel, I should be gone.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at himself, at his limbs and his body in the pride of his maturity. +He was very beautiful to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, in the place where I am,” he said. “Gone, like a puff of steam that +melts on the sunshine.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Siegmund looked at the sea. It was glittering with laughter as at a joke. +</p> + +<p> +“And I,” he said, lying down in the warm sand, “I am nothing. I do not count; I +am inconsiderable.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “if I am nothing dead I am nothing alive.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How surprised they will be to see me!” said Helena, scrambling forward, +laughing. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The moment passed, and her thoughts hurried forward in confusion. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +As she stood dabbling her bathing-dress in a pool, Siegmund came over the beach +to her. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not gone, then?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I, actually,” he said, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t the sea wonderful this morning?” asked Helena, as she wrung the water +from her costume. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Siegmund, “the morning is perfect.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is,” assented Helena warmly. “Have you noticed the waves? They are like a +line of children chased by a white dog.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t you have a good time?” she asked, touching with her finger-tips the +nape of his neck as he stooped beside her. +</p> + +<p> +“I swam to my little bay again,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you?” she exclaimed, pleased. +</p> + +<p> +She sat down by the pool, in which she washed her feet free from sand, holding +them to Siegmund to dry. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very hungry,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“And I,” he agreed. +</p> + +<p> +“I feel quite established here,” she said gaily, something in his position +having reminded her of their departure. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems another eternity before the three-forty-five train, doesn’t it?” she +insisted. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish we might never go back,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Helena sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be too much for life to give. We have had something, Siegmund,” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +He bowed his head, and did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“It has been something, dear,” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +He rose and took her in his arms. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +She pressed her two hands on his head. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderfully well, Helena,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +She kissed his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“You are everything,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She pressed his head on her bosom. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>XVIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The water would be warm this morning,” she said, addressing no one in +particular. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It was,” assented Helena. “It was as warm as new milk.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, they had gone,” replied Helena. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund swayed from foot to foot, rhythmically. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be coming in to dinner today?” asked the old lady. +</p> + +<p> +Helena arranged the matter. +</p> + +<p> +“I think ye both look better,” Mrs. Curtiss said. She glanced at Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +He smiled constrainedly. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought ye looked so worn when you came,” she said sympathetically. +</p> + +<p> +“He had been working hard,” said Helena, also glancing at him. +</p> + +<p> +He bent his head, and was whistling without making any sound. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Helena raised her eyebrows in polite interest. “Have you never seen them?” she +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Mrs. Curtiss. “I’ve never been able to get; but I hope to go +yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you may,” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +The little woman beamed on him. Having won a word from him, she was quite +satisfied. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said brightly, “the eggs must be done by now.” +</p> + +<p> +She tripped out, to return directly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How could we help?” laughed Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“We will,” smiled Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” exclaimed Siegmund, smiling at her. +</p> + +<p> +“One of the few places where everything is friendly,” she said. “And +everybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have made so many enemies?” he asked, with gentle irony. +</p> + +<p> +“Strangers,” she replied. “I seem to make strangers of all the people I meet.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed in amusement at this <i>mot</i>. Siegmund looked at her intently. +He was thinking of her left alone amongst strangers. +</p> + +<p> +“Need we go—need we leave this place of friends?” he said, as if ironically. He +was very much afraid of tempting her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund laughed too, as he accepted the particularly fine bunch of currants +she had extricated for him. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>XIX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Helena walked along, watching the flowers, and making fancies out of them. +</p> + +<p> +“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….” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at Siegmund. He was walking moodily beside her. +</p> + +<p> +“It is good when life holds no anti-climax,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” he answered. Of course, he could not understand her meaning. +</p> + +<p> +She strayed into the thick grass, a sturdy white figure that walked with bent +head, abstract, but happy. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The dew has been very heavy,” she said, turning, and looking up at him from +under her brows, like a smiling witch. +</p> + +<p> +“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….” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Amy! Amy!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He is in a bad temper,” laughed Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“Breakfast is late,” said Helena with contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“Look!” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was a quick sound of women’s low, apologetic voices, overridden by the +resentful abuse of the man. +</p> + +<p> +The lovers moved out of hearing. +</p> + +<p> +“Imagine that breakfast-table!” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are many such roosts,” said Siegmund pertinently. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“You know, Domine,” said Helena—it was his old nickname she used—“you look +quite stern today.” +</p> + +<p> +“I feel anything but stern,” he laughed. “Weaker than usual, in fact.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“And shall I not be brave?” he said. “Can’t you smell <i>Fumum et opes +strepitumque Romae</i>?” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you look surprised,” smiled she. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But why should he have failed with Helena? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The little fool!” said Siegmund, watching the black dot swallowed into the +light. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Helena lay in what shadow he afforded. The heat put out all her +thought-activity. Presently she said: +</p> + +<p> +“This heat is terrible, Siegmund. Shall we go down to the water?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we not go under the rocks?” said Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“Look!” he said, “the sun is beating on the cliffs. It is hotter, more +suffocating, there.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My arms, Siegmund,” said she. “They feel as if they were dipped in fire.” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund took them, without a word, and hid them under his coat. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure it is not bad for you—your head, Siegmund? Are you sure?” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed stupidly. +</p> + +<p> +“That is all right,” he said. He knew that the sun was burning through him, and +doing him harm, but he wanted the intoxication. +</p> + +<p> +As he looked wistfully far away over the sea at Helena’s mist-curtain, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>think</i> we should be able to keep together if”—he faltered—“if only I +could have you a little longer. I have never had you …” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He held her safely, saying nothing until she was calmer, when, with his lips on +her cheek, he murmured: +</p> + +<p> +“I should be able, shouldn’t I, Helena?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are always able!” she cried. “It is I who play with you at hiding.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have really had you so little,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t do without me?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She still clung to him, craving so to have him that he could not be reft away. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +This was the poor heron of quarry the hawks of his mind had struck. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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….” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If now,” prayed Siegmund, “death would wipe the sweat from me, and it were +dark….” +</p> + +<p> +But the waves softly marked the minutes, retreating farther, leaving the bare +rocks to bleach and the weed to shrivel. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At last she sat up abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is time, Siegmund,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We must go, Siegmund,” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he said, but still he did not move. +</p> + +<p> +She stood up beside him, shook herself, and tried to get a breath of air. She +was dazzled blind by the sunshine. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund lay in the bright light, with his eyes closed, never moving. His face +was inflamed, but fixed like a mask. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall be too late,” she said in distress. +</p> + +<p> +He sighed and sat up, looking out over the water. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund knew he was making it unbearable for her. Pulling himself together, he +bent his head from the sea, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what time is it?” +</p> + +<p> +He took out his watch, holding it in his hand. Helena still held his left hand, +and had one arm round his neck. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t see the figures,” he said. “Everything is dimmed, as if it were coming +dark.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Helena, in that reedy, painful tone of hers. “My eyes were the +same. It is the strong sunlight.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t,” he repeated, and he was rather surprised—“I can’t see the time. Can +you?” +</p> + +<p> +She stooped down and looked. +</p> + +<p> +“It is half past one,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Helena, “I am afraid it will do you harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate,” he smiled as if sleepily, “I have had enough. If it’s too +much—what <i>is</i> too much?” +</p> + +<p> +They went unevenly over the sand, their eyes sun-dimmed. +</p> + +<p> +“We are going back—we are going back!” the heart of Helena seemed to run hot, +beating these words. +</p> + +<p> +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, “<i>Addio</i>!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +He turned away, and, looking from Helena landwards, he said, smiling +peculiarly: +</p> + +<p> +“It reminds me of Traviata—an ‘<i>Addio</i>’ at every verse-end.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled with her mouth in acknowledgement of his facetious irony; it jarred +on her. He was pricked again by her supercilious reserve. “<i>Addi-i-i-i-o, +Addi-i-i-o</i>!” he whistled between his teeth, hissing out the Italian’s +passion-notes in a way that made Helena clench her fists. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” she said, swallowing, and recovering her voice to check this +discord—“I suppose we shall have a fairly easy journey—Thursday.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“There will not be very many people,” she insisted. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why?” she exclaimed in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to sit looking at you all the way,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But why should you?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, no!” she said. “We shall go together.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +They walked on in silence towards the village. As they drew near the little +post office, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I may as well wire them that I shall be home tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t sent them any word?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. They came to the open door of the little shop. He stood still, not +entering. Helena wondered what he was thinking. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I?” he asked, meaning, should he wire to Beatrice. His manner was rather +peculiar. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There goes my warrant,” thought Siegmund, watching the flimsy bit of paper +under the post-mistress’s heavy hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—it is too bad, isn’t it,” he replied, bowing and laughing to the woman. +</p> + +<p> +“It is, sir,” she answered pleasantly. “Good morning.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Siegmund, “are there any postcards?” +</p> + +<p> +“None that I care to take,” she replied. “Perhaps you would like one of these?” +</p> + +<p> +She pointed to some faded-looking cards which proved to be imaginary views of +Alum Bay done in variegated sand. Siegmund smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder if they dribbled the sand on with a fine glass tube,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Or a brush,” said Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“She does not understand,” said Siegmund to himself. “And whatever I do I must +not tell her. I should have thought she would understand.” +</p> + +<p> +As he walked home beside her there mingled with his other feelings resentment +against her. Almost he hated her. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>XX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no,” she answered. “You do not crush me.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Helena’s stout neighbour, who, it seemed, was from Dresden, began to tell +anecdotes. He was a <i>raconteur</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, I am sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said the German gratefully. +</p> + +<p> +Helena turned away. The talk began again like the popping of corn; the +<i>raconteur</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>XXI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is all very glad,” said Siegmund to himself, “but it seems to be fanciful.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Helena watched with poignant sorrow all the agitation of colour on the blue +afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“We must leave it; we must pass out of it,” she lamented, over and over again. +Each new charm she caught eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“I like the steady purpose of that brown-sailed tramp,” she said to herself, +watching a laden coaster making for Portsmouth. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, that was a near thing!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, that has made me feel bad!” said a woman. +</p> + +<p> +“A French yacht,” said somebody. +</p> + +<p> +Helena was waiting for the voice of Siegmund. But he did not know what to say. +Confused, he repeated: +</p> + +<p> +“That was a close shave.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wasn’t that woman fine!” said Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“So perfectly still,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“The child realized nothing,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund laughed, then leaned forward impulsively to her. +</p> + +<p> +“I am always so sorry,” he said, “that the human race is urged inevitably into +a deeper and deeper realization of life.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him, wondering what provoked such a remark. +</p> + +<p> +“I guess,” she said slowly, after a while, “that the man, the sailor, will have +a bad time. He was abominably careless.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was scarcely his first business,” said she, rather sarcastic. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund looked at her. She seemed very hard in judgement—very blind. Sometimes +his soul surged against her in hatred. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think the man <i>wanted</i> to drown the boat?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He nearly succeeded,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Would the woman cry, or hug and kiss the boy when she got on board?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I rather think not. Why?” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope she didn’t,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Victory</i>, gay with myriad pointed +pennons, was harvested, saved for a trophy. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you let me go by the South-Western, and you by the Brighton?” asked +Siegmund, hesitating, repeating the morning’s question. +</p> + +<p> +Helena looked at him, knitting her brows with misgiving and perplexity. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she replied. “Let us go together.” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund followed her up the iron ladder to the quay. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said he to himself, “I wish I were alone.” +</p> + +<p> +He wanted to think and prepare himself. +</p> + +<p> +Helena, who was thinking actively, leaned forward to him to say: +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I not go down to Cornwall?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But you have promised Louisa, have you not?” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well!” she said, in the peculiar slighting tone she had when she wished to +convey the unimportance of affairs not touching him. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you must go,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” she began, with harsh petulance, “I do not want to go down to Cornwall +with <i>Louisa and Olive</i>”—she accentuated the two names—“after +<i>this</i>,” she added. +</p> + +<p> +“Then Louisa will have no holiday—and you have promised,” he said gravely. +</p> + +<p> +Helena looked at him. She saw he had decided that she should go. +</p> + +<p> +“Is my promise so <i>very</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It will go on,” thought Siegmund, “being gay of an evening, for ever. And I +shall miss it all!” +</p> + +<p> +But as soon as the train moved into the gloom of the Town station, he began +again: +</p> + +<p> +“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…. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +As he sat thinking, Helena leaned across to him and laid her hand on his knee. +</p> + +<p> +“If I have made things more difficult,” she said, her voice harsh with pain, +“you will forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive you?” he repeated. “Forgive you for five days of perfect happiness; +the only real happiness I have ever known!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +It was a question she had aroused before, a question which he could never +answer; indeed, it was not for him to answer. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +One gold cloud, as an encouragement tossed to her, followed the train. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She then proceeded to tell him the legend from “Aylwin”. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund listened, and smiled. The sunset was handsome on his face. +</p> + +<p> +Helena was almost happy. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>are</i> +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 <i>have</i> burned bright; I have +laid up a fine cell of honey somewhere—I wonder where? We can never point to +it; but it <i>is</i> so—what does it matter, then!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember,” he asked, “the roses of Sharon all along here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do,” replied Helena, glad he spoke so brightly. “Weren’t they pretty?” +</p> + +<p> +After a few moments of watching the bank, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled, without answering. +</p> + +<p> +She glanced up at him, smiling brightly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund darkened and frowned. Here was the pain revived again. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said gently; “I think we had better not.” Almost for the first time he +did not make apologetic explanation. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him. He was sad, therefore she softened instantly. +</p> + +<p> +“At least,” she said doubtfully, “I shall see you at the station.” +</p> + +<p> +“At Waterloo?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, at Wimbledon,” she replied, in her metallic tone. +</p> + +<p> +“But—” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +He looked up a train for her in his little time-table. +</p> + +<p> +“You will get in Wimbledon 10.5—leave 10.40—leave Waterloo 11.30,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +The brakes were grinding. They waited in a burning suspense for the train to +stop. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I lose her,” said Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +She looked up at him; her face was white and dismal. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, then!” she said, and she turned away. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>XXII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a wonderful night,” he said to himself. “There are not two such in a +year.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose the children are in bed,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want any supper?” asked Beatrice, and the sudden harshness of her voice +startled him into looking at her. +</p> + +<p> +She had her face averted, refusing to see him. Siegmund’s heart went down with +weariness and despair at the sight of her. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t <i>you</i> having any?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you read this tale of a French convent school in here, Mother?” she +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“In where?” +</p> + +<p> +In this month’s <i>Nash’s</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Beatrice. “What time have I for reading, much less for anything +else?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say, Mother?” said Vera, as if resuming a conversation. “Shall it +be Hampton Court or Richmond on Sunday?” +</p> + +<p> +“I say, as I said before,” replied Beatrice: “I cannot afford to go out.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must begin, my dear, and Sunday shall see the beginning. <i>Dîtes +donc</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +“There are other things to think of,” said Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, <i>maman, nous avons changé tout cela</i>! We are going out—a jolly +little razzle!” Vera, who was rather handsome, lifted up her face and smiled at +her mother gaily. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid there will be no <i>razzle</i>”—Beatrice accented the word, +smiling slightly—“for me. You are slangy, Vera.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Un doux argot, ma mère</i>. You look tired.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice glanced at the clock. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go to bed when I have cleared the table,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“There’s your supper, Father.” +</p> + +<p> +The women stopped and looked round at this. Siegmund bent his head lower. Vera +resumed her talk. It died out, and there was silence. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund was hungry. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good night!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Nobody made any reply. Frank merely stirred in his chair. Siegmund shut the +door and went. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He is not worth the flicking of your little finger, Mother,” said Vera. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice moved about with pitiful, groping hands, collecting her sewing and her +cottons. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, he’s come back red enough,” said Frank, in his grating tone of +contempt. “He’s like boiled salmon.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice did not answer anything. Frank rose, and stood with his back to the +grate, in his father’s characteristic attitude. +</p> + +<p> +“He <i>would</i> come slinking back in a funk!” he said, with a young man’s +sneer. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a little more ham, if you’d like it,” said Beatrice to him. “I kept +you some.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Ma,” he replied. Fetch it in.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice went out to the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +“And bring the bread and butter, too, will you?” called Vera after her. +</p> + +<p> +“The damned coward! Ain’t he a rotten funker?” said Frank, <i>sotto voce</i>, +while his mother was out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Vera did not reply, but she seemed tacitly to agree. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice was crying. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>XXIII</h2> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What a big night!” thought Siegmund. “The night gathers everything into a +oneness. I wonder what is in it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Having assured himself, he stepped indoors, unpacked his bag, and was soon in +bed. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a good bed,” he said. “And the sheets are very fresh.” +</p> + +<p> +He lay for a little while with his head bending forwards, looking from his +pillow out at the stars, then he went to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +At half past six in the morning he suddenly opened his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he asked, and almost without interruption answered: “Well, I’ve +got to go through it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he heard his wife stirring. She opened the door of the room next to +his, and he heard her: +</p> + +<p> +“Frank, it’s a quarter to eight. You <i>will</i> be late.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Mother. Why didn’t you call me sooner?” grumbled the lad. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t wake myself. I didn’t go to sleep till morning, and then I slept.” +</p> + +<p> +She went downstairs. Siegmund listened for his son to get out of bed. The +minutes passed. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want any hot water?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know there isn’t time for me to shave now,” answered her son, lifting his +voice to a kind of broken falsetto. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund could hardly contain himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you go down and ask?” Vera called crossly from the bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +And at the same moment Beatrice answered, also crossly: “What do you want?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s my stockings?” cried the child at the top of her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you ask me? Are they down here?” replied her mother. “What are you +shouting for?” +</p> + +<p> +The child plodded downstairs. Directly she returned, and as she passed into +Vera’s room, she grumbled: “And now they’re not mended.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mam,” Siegmund heard her say as she went down the hall, “has dad come?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +Then she went downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +He lay probing and torturing himself for another half-hour, till Vera’s voice +said coldly, beneath his window outside: +</p> + +<p> +“You should clear away, then. We don’t want the breakfast things on the table +for a week.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello!” said her father. “Are you here!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you washed your ears?” he said gaily. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There is some chocolate on my dressing-table,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Where have you been to?” she asked suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“To the seaside,” he answered, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“To Brighton?” she asked. Her tone was still condemning. +</p> + +<p> +“Much farther than that,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“To Worthing?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Farther—in a steamer,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“But who did you go with?” asked the child. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I went all by myself,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Twuly?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Weally and twuly,” he answered, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Couldn’t you take me?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I will next time,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +The child still looked at him, unsatisfied. +</p> + +<p> +“But what did you go for?” she asked, goading him suspiciously. +</p> + +<p> +“To see the sea and the ships and the fighting ships with cannons—” +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>might</i> have taken me,” said the child reproachfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I ought to have done, oughtn’t I?” he said, as if regretful. +</p> + +<p> +Gwen still looked full at him. +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>are</i> red,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He glanced quickly in the glass, and replied: +</p> + +<p> +“That is the sun. Hasn’t it been hot?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mm! It made my nose all peel. Vera said she would scrape me like a new +potato.” The child laughed and turned shyly away. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here,” said Siegmund. “I believe you’ve got a tooth out, haven’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +He was very cautious and gentle. The child drew back. He hesitated, and she +drew away from him, unwilling. +</p> + +<p> +“Come and let me look,” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +She drew farther away, and the same constrained smile appeared on her face, +shy, suspicious, condemning. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you going to get your chocolate?” he asked, as the child hesitated in +the doorway. +</p> + +<p> +She glanced into his room, and answered: +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got to go to mam and have my hair done.” +</p> + +<p> +Her awkwardness and her lack of compliance insulted him. She went downstairs +without going into his room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“A pity to wash it off,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned to the mirror. There he saw himself a mature, complete man of forty, +with grave years of experience on his countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>London Opinion</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“He is sitting with his head in his hands,” she said to her mother. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice replied: “I’m glad he’s nothing else to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think he’s pitying himself,” said Vera. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a good one at it,” answered Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +Gwen came forward and took hold of her mother’s skirt, looking up anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“What is he doing, Mam?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” replied her mother—“nothing; only sitting in the drawing-room.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what has he <i>been</i> doing?” persisted the anxious child. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing—nothing that I can tell <i>you</i>. He’s only spoilt all our lives.” +</p> + +<p> +The little girl stood regarding her mother In the greatest distress and +perplexity. +</p> + +<p> +“But what will he do, Mam?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. Don’t bother. Run and play with Marjory now. Do you want a nice +plum?” +</p> + +<p> +She took a yellow plum from the table. Gwen accepted it without a word. She was +too much perplexed. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say?” asked her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” replied the child, turning away. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, this is horrible!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +He stiffened his muscles to quieten them. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve never been like this before. What is the matter?” he asked himself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What do I want?” he asked himself, and he anxiously strove to find this out. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I should be just the same there,” he answered himself. “Just the same +sickening feeling there that I want nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Helena!” he suggested to himself, trembling. +</p> + +<p> +But he only felt a deeper horror. The thought of her made him shrink +convulsively. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He rested awhile after this. The idea of death alone seemed entertaining. Then, +“Is there really nothing I could turn to?” he asked himself. +</p> + +<p> +To him, in that state of soul, it seemed there was not. +</p> + +<p> +“Helena!” he suggested again, appealingly testing himself. “Ah, no!” he cried, +drawing sharply back, as from an approaching touch upon a raw place. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dad, Mam says dinner’s ready,” she announced. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund did not reply. The child waited, at a loss for some moments, before +she repeated, in a hesitating tone: +</p> + +<p> +“Dinner’s ready.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Siegmund. “Go away.” +</p> + +<p> +The little girl returned to the kitchen with tears in her eyes, very +crestfallen. +</p> + +<p> +“What did he say?” asked Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“He shouted at me,” replied the little one, breaking into tears. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice flushed. Tears came into her own eyes. She took the child in her arms +and pressed her to her, kissing her forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“Did he?” she said very tenderly. “Never mind, then, dearie—never mind.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>XXIV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, here we are!” replied the daughter in a matter-of-fact tone. +</p> + +<p> +Her mother was inclined to be affectionate, therefore she became +proportionately cold. +</p> + +<p> +“So I see,” exclaimed Mrs Verden, tossing her head in a peculiar jocular +manner. “And what sort of a time have you had?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very good,” replied Helena, still more coolly. +</p> + +<p> +“H’m!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You look well,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Helena smiled ironically. +</p> + +<p> +“And are you ready for your supper?” she asked, in the playful, affectionate +manner she had assumed. +</p> + +<p> +“If the supper is ready I will have it,” replied her daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“The full list of your capacious larder,” replied Helena. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Verden looked at her again, and hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you have cocoa or lemonade?” she asked, coming to the point curtly. +</p> + +<p> +“Lemonade,” said Helena. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Mr Verden entered—a small, white-bearded man with a gentle voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, so you are back, Nellie!” he said, in his quiet, reserved manner. +</p> + +<p> +“As you see, Pater,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“H’m!” he murmured, and he moved about at his accounts. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was a quick, light palpitating of the knocker. Mrs Verden went to the +door. +</p> + +<p> +“Has she come?” +</p> + +<p> +And there were hasty steps along the passage. Louisa entered. She flung herself +upon Helena and kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“How long have you been in?” she asked, in a voice trembling with affection. +</p> + +<p> +“Ten minutes,” replied Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t you send me the time of the train, so that I could come and meet +you?” Louisa reproached her. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” drawled Helena. +</p> + +<p> +Louisa looked at her friend without speaking. She was deeply hurt by this +sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At last the night fell. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Helena to her mother, “I suppose I’d better pack.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Helena smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Ten minutes to ten.” +</p> + +<p> +Her mother glanced at the clock. It was only half-past eight. There was ample +time for everything. +</p> + +<p> +“Nevertheless, you’d better look sharp,” Mrs Verden said. +</p> + +<p> +Helena turned away, weary of this exaggeration. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Helena turned round in surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I wouldn’t bother,” she said, fearing to make her disapproval too evident. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—I will—I’ll see you off.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How stupid I look!” she said to herself. “And Siegmund, how is he, I wonder?” +</p> + +<p> +She wondered how Siegmund had passed the day, what had happened to him, how he +felt, how he looked. She thought of him protectively. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to go, Nell,” she said, after a few moments of silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, how is that?” asked Helena, not surprised, but condescending, as to a +child. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t know; I’m tired,” said the other petulantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you are. What do you expect, after a day like this?” said Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“And rushing about packing,” exclaimed Mrs Verden, still in an exaggerated +manner, this time scolding playfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think I want to go, dear,” repeated Louisa +dejectedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is time we set out,” replied Helena, rising. “Will you carry the +basket or the violin, Mater?” +</p> + +<p> +Louisa rose, and with a forlorn expression took up her light luggage. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>XXV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“When does your engagement at the Comedy Theatre commence?” she had asked him +coldly. +</p> + +<p> +He knew she was wondering about money. +</p> + +<p> +“Tomorrow—if ever,” he had answered. +</p> + +<p> +She was aware that he hated the work. For some reason or other her anger +flashed out like sudden lightning at his “if ever”. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think you <i>can</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I said nothing about shirking the engagement,” replied Siegmund, very coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, there was no need to say. I know what it means. You sit there sulking all +day. What do you think <i>I</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>I’ll</i> stop, I tell +you <i>I’ll</i> do as I like. <i>I’ll</i> go as well. No, I wouldn’t be such a +coward, you know that. You know <i>I</i> wouldn’t leave little children—to the +workhouse or anything. They’re my children; they mightn’t be yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no need for this,” said Siegmund contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +The pressure in his temples was excruciating, and he felt loathsomely sick. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice’s dark eyes flashed with rage. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Be quiet!” shouted Siegmund. “Don’t I know what you are? Listen to yourself!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Vera entered with the two children. All three immediately, as if they found +themselves confronted by something threatening, stood arrested. Vera tackled +the situation. +</p> + +<p> +“Is the table ready to be cleared yet?” she asked in an unpleasant tone. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mam, there was a lady had a dog, and it ran into a shop, and it licked a +sheep, Mam, what was hanging up.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice sat fixed, and paid not the slightest attention. The child looked up +at her, waited, then continued softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Mam, there was a lady had a dog—” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t bother!” snapped Vera sharply. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Mam, I saw a dog, and it ran in a butcher’s shop and licked a piece of meat. +Mam, Mam!” +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer. Gwen went forward and put her hand on her mother’s knee. +</p> + +<p> +“Mam!” she pleaded timidly. +</p> + +<p> +No response. +</p> + +<p> +“Mam!” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +She was desperate. She stood on tiptoe, and pulled with little hands at her +mother’s breast. +</p> + +<p> +“Mam!” she whispered shrilly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mam, there was a lady, she had a dog—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Mam, is dad cross—is he? What did he do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t bother!” snapped Vera. “You <i>are</i> a little nuisance! Here, take +this into the dining-room, and don’t drop it.” +</p> + +<p> +The child did not obey. She stood looking from her mother to her sister. The +latter pushed a dish into her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Go along,” she said, gently thrusting the child forth. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Gwen!” called Vera, wondering why she did not return. “Gwen!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered the child, and slowly Siegmund saw her feet lifted, hesitate, +move, then turn away. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is said to be the sign of a weak, deceitful character,” he said to himself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But it is no good,” he said, staring like a drunken man from sleep. “What time +is it?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He waited and waited; his head dropped forward in a sort of sleep. Suddenly he +started awake. The back of his head hurt severely. +</p> + +<p> +“Goodness,” he said, “it’s getting quite dark!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going out? Where are you going?” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund stood still and looked at her. +</p> + +<p> +“She is frightened,” he said to himself, smiling ironically. +</p> + +<p> +“I am only going a walk. I have to go to Wimbledon. I shall not be very long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wimbledon, at this time!” said Vera sharply, full of suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am late. I shall be back in an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +He was sorry for her. She knew he gave her an honourable promise. +</p> + +<p> +“You need not keep us sitting up,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer, but hurried to the station. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>XXVI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The next train for Waterloo,” she announced, in her contralto voice, “is +10.30. It is now 10.12.” +</p> + +<p> +“We go by the 10.40; it is a better train,” said Helena. +</p> + +<p> +Olive turned to her with a heavy-arch manner. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You look it. You look as if you could tackle a bull,” cried Louisa, skittish. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Oh, the gladness of her gladness when she’s sad,<br/> +And the sadness of her sadness when she’s glad!’” +</p> + +<p> +She looked round to see the effect of this. Helena, expected to say something, +chimed in sarcastically: +</p> + +<p> +“‘They are nothing to her madness—’” +</p> + +<p> +“When she’s going for a holiday, dear,” cried Olive. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, go on being mad,” cried Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“What, do you like it? I thought you’d be thanking Heaven that sanity was given +me in large doses.” +</p> + +<p> +“And holidays in small,” laughed Louisa. “Good! No, I like your madness, if you +call it such. You are always so serious.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘It’s ill talking of halters in the house of the hanged,’ dear,” boomed Olive. +</p> + +<p> +She looked from side to side. She felt triumphant. Helena smiled, acknowledging +the sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” said Louisa, smiling anxiously, “I don’t quite see it. What’s the +point?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, to be explicit, dear,” replied Olive, “it is hardly safe to accuse me of +sadness and seriousness in <i>this</i> trio.” +</p> + +<p> +Louisa laughed and shook herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Come to think of it, it isn’t,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She went towards the booking-office. At that moment Siegmund came on to the +platform. +</p> + +<p> +“Here I am!” he said. “Where is Louisa?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Olive is there, too,” she explained. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Does she—your other friend—does she know?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“She knows nothing,” replied Helena in a low tone, as she led him forward to be +introduced. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, since I may not do more,” replied Siegmund, smiling, continuing: “And +how is Sister Louisa?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is very well, thank you. It is <i>her</i> turn now,” cried Louisa, +vindictive, triumphant. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is your turn now,” he repeated, smiling, and he turned away. +</p> + +<p> +He and Helena walked down the platform. +</p> + +<p> +“How did you find things at home?” he asked her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, as usual,” she replied indifferently. “And you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just the same,” he answered. He thought for a moment or two, then added: “The +children are happier without me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you mustn’t say that kind of thing protested Helena miserably. “It’s not +true.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Dear, I want you to promise that, whatever happens to me, you will go on. +Remember, dear, two wrongs don’t make a right.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I swear,” she said wrathfully, turning at bay, “that I won’t live a day +after you.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Helena looked at him, dumb with dismay, stupid, angry. +</p> + +<p> +They became aware of the porters shouting loudly that the Waterloo train was to +leave from another platform. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better come,” said Siegmund, and they hurried down towards Louisa and +Olive. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve got to change platforms,” cried Louisa, running forward and excitedly +announcing the news. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Helena, pale and impassive. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund picked up the luggage. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>sotto +voce</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right, dear,” said Olive, somewhat nonplussed by this outburst. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Louisa laughed aloud at this vulgar conception of Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +“Just now, at any rate,” she rejoined. +</p> + +<p> +As they reached the platform the train ran in before them. Helena watched +anxiously for an empty carriage. There was not one. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You are coming? Oh, you are coming to Waterloo?” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot come,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—go—go—go—when will she go?” +</p> + +<p> +He could not bear her piteousness. Her presence made him feel insane. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like to come to the window?” a man asked of Helena kindly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, dear, we are manless,” said Olive in a whisper. But her attempt at a joke +fell dead. Everybody was silent and uneasy. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>XXVII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been over an hour,” she said, still more troubled when she found her +voice shaking. She had no idea what alarmed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” returned Siegmund. +</p> + +<p> +He went into the dining-room and dropped into his chair, with his head between +his hands. Vera followed him nervously. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you have anything to eat?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you going to bed?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund heard her without paying any attention. He seemed only to half hear. +Vera waited awhile, then repeated plaintively: +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you going to bed, Father?” +</p> + +<p> +Siegmund lifted his head and looked at her. He loathed the idea of having to +move. He looked at her confusedly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Father!” she cried at last. +</p> + +<p> +He started up, gripping the arms of his chair, trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’m going,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +He rose, and went unevenly upstairs. Vera followed him close behind. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Helena?” he asked himself, and he looked out on the morning. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>The Saucy Little Switzer</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat for a long time with his notebook and a pencil, but he wrote nothing. At +last he gave up. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He took a card, bearing her name and her Cornwall address, from his +pocket-book, and laid it on the dressing-table. +</p> + +<p> +“She will come with me,” he said to himself, and his heart rose with elation. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a cowardice,” he added, looking doubtfully at the card, as if +wondering whether to destroy it. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Then he sat down again. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But for that fear of something after-death,’” he quoted to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “I can’t help it. I do not feel altogether self-responsible.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There are two letters for you. Father.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked about him in bewilderment; the hours had passed in a trance, and he +had no idea of his time or place. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it so late?” he said. “Is there no more time for me?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What am I going to do?” he asked himself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A second knock came at the door. He started with a jolt. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is your shaving-water,” said Beatrice in cold tones. “It’s half past +nine.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Siegmund, rising from the bed, bewildered. +</p> + +<p> +“And what time shall you expect dinner?” asked Beatrice. She was still +contemptuous. +</p> + +<p> +“Any time. I’m not going out,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>XXVIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He did not come, so her anger waxed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you going to get up?” +</p> + +<p> +There was not the faintest sound in the house. Beatrice stood in the gloom of +the landing, her heart thudding in her ears. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s after half past ten—aren’t you going to get up?” she called. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you come and see if there’s anything wrong with my husband?” she asked +wildly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, mum?” answered the window-cleaner, who knew her, and was humbly familiar. +“Is he taken bad or something? Yes, I’ll come.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is he, Mum?” he asked officiously, as they slowed down at the side +passage. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s in his bedroom, and I can’t get an answer from him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it the least of the front rooms he’s in?” asked the window-cleaner. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, over the porch,” replied Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +The man bustled with his ladder. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s easy enough,” he said. “The door’s open, and we’re soon on the balcony.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I say there!” he called loudly. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice stood below in horrible suspense. +</p> + +<p> +“Go in!” she cried. “Go in! Is he there?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hie, hie!” he suddenly cried in terror, and he drew back. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice was opening her mouth to scream, when the window-cleaner exclaimed +weakly, as if dubious: +</p> + +<p> +“I believe ’e’s ’anged ’imself from the door-’ooks!” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” cried Beatrice. “No, no, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe ’e ’as!” repeated the man. +</p> + +<p> +“Go in and see if he’s dead!” cried Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +The man remained in the doorway, peering fixedly. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe he is,” he said doubtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“No—go and see!” screamed Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>XXIX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Fathers and Sons</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why am I doing this?” Helena asked herself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Walküre</i>; in the second place, <i>Tristan</i> +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 +<i>Tristan</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There, wasn’t that lovely!” cried Louisa, speaking of the lightning. “Oo, +wasn’t it magnificent!—glorious!” +</p> + +<p> +The door clicked and opened: Olive entered in her long white nightgown. She +hurried to the bed. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, dear!” she exclaimed, “may I come into the fold? I prefer the shelter +of your company, dear, during this little lot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you like it?” cried Louisa. “I think it’s <i>lovely</i>—lovely!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” exclaimed the former, breathless. “That was fine! Helena, did you see +that?” +</p> + +<p> +She clasped ecstatically the hand of her friend, who was lying down. Helena’s +answer was extinguished by the burst of thunder. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not struck yet,” replied Helena, with a sarcastic attempt at a jest. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, dear,” said Olive; “you do me the honour of catching hold.” +</p> + +<p> +Helena laughed ironically. +</p> + +<p> +“Catching what?” asked Louisa, mystified. +</p> + +<p> +“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….” +</p> + +<p> +The rest of her speech was overwhelmed in thunder. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Gradually the storm, drew away. The rain came down with a rush, persisted with +a bruising sound upon the earth and the leaves. +</p> + +<p> +“What a deluge!” exclaimed Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Nevertheless,” she said at last, “if I don’t hear tomorrow I will go and see.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Helena looked up a train. She was quite sure by this time that something fatal +awaited her. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Promise me,” she had said, “if ever I were sick and wanted you, you would come +to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would come to you from hell!” Siegmund had replied. +</p> + +<p> +“And if you were ill—you would let me come to you?” she had added. +</p> + +<p> +“I promise,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +After turning the newspaper several times she found what she sought. +</p> + +<p> +“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….” +</p> + +<p> +The paragraph, in a bald twelve lines, told her everything. +</p> + +<p> +“Jury returned a verdict of suicide during temporary insanity. Sympathy was +expressed for the widow and children.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That was what I got,” she said, months afterwards; “and it was like a brick, +it was like a brick.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Siegmund dead. No train tonight. Am going home.” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +As she knocked at the door of home she was apparently quite calm. Her mother +opened to her. +</p> + +<p> +“What, are you alone?” cried Mrs. Verden. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Inquest was held today upon the body of ——.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How did you get to know?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I went to Wimbledon and bought a local paper,” replied the daughter, in her +muted, toneless voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you go to the house?” asked the mother sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Helena. +</p> + +<p> +“I was wondering whether to send you that paper,” said her mother hesitatingly. +</p> + +<p> +Helena did not answer her. She wandered about the house mechanically, looking +for something. Her mother followed her, trying very gently to help her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you go to rest, Nellie?” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +Helena shivered slightly. +</p> + +<p> +“Do, my dear,” her mother pleaded. “Let me take you to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I leave you the candle?” said Mrs Verden. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Will she be all right if you leave her?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“We must listen,” replied the mother abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“She is asleep,” whispered the wife hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it a—a natural sleep?” hesitated the husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I think it is. I think she will be all right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God!” whispered the father, almost inaudibly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>XXX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The children!” she said to herself—“the children. I must live for the +children; I must think for the children.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>superior</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What, you here all alone!” exclaimed Beatrice, who had just come from putting +the children to bed. “I thought you had gone out.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—o! What’s the use,” replied Mr Allport, turning to look at his landlady, +“of going out? There’s nowhere to go.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t say that!” exclaimed Beatrice. “You want to enjoy life.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice became suddenly grave. +</p> + +<p> +“You talk in that way, Mr. Allport,” she said. “You don’t think of the others.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” he drawled. “What does it matter? Look here—who’d care? What I +mean to say—for long?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all very easy, but it’s cowardly,” replied Beatrice gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Allport, “it’s true—isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not—and I <i>should</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but then,” said Mr. Allport very softly and sympathetically, looking at +Beatrice’s black dress, “I’ve no one depending on <i>me</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—you haven’t—but you’ve a mother and sister. The women always have to bear +the brunt.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Allport looked at Beatrice, and found her very pathetic. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, they do rather,” he replied sadly, tentatively waiting. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Allport looked at her very sympathetically. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t mean it!” he exclaimed softly. “Surely he didn’t—?” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice nodded, and turned aside her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said. “I know what it is to bear that kind of thing—and it’s no +light thing, I can assure you.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a suspicion of tears in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“And when was this, then—that he—?” asked Mr. Allport, almost with reverence. +</p> + +<p> +“Only last year,” replied Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what a nice smell! Sitting in the dark, Mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was just trying to cheer up Mr. Allport; he is very despondent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray do not overlook me,” said Mr. Allport, rising and bowing. +</p> + +<p> +“Well! I did not see you! Fancy your sitting in the twilight chatting with the +mater. You must have been an unscrupulous bore, maman.” +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary,” replied Mr. Allport, “Mrs. MacNair has been so good as to +bear with me making a fool of myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what way?” asked Vera sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Allport is so despondent. I think he must be in love,” said Beatrice +playfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Unfortunately, I am not—or at least I am not yet aware of it,” said Mr. +Allport, bowing slightly to Vera. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It certainly does look like a piece of melon-shell—one portion,” replied Vera. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, Miss MacNair,” he said, “Whoever got the slice found it raw, I +think.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What primroses?” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Evening primroses—there are some.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are there?” he said in surprise. Vera smiled to herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, come and look,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The young man rose with alacrity. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holiday came into the dining-room whilst they were down the garden. +</p> + +<p> +“What, nobody in!” they heard him exclaim. +</p> + +<p> +“There is Holiday,” murmured Mr Allport resentfully. +</p> + +<p> +Vera did not answer. Holiday came to the open window, attracted by the +fragrance. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What have you got?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing in particular,” replied Mr Allport. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Holiday sniggered. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Curst fool!” muttered Mr Allport. “I beg your pardon,” he added swiftly to +Vera. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the piano is not my instrument; mine was the violin, but I do not play +now,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“But you will begin again,” pleaded Mr. Allport. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother used to play—” she began. +</p> + +<p> +“Vera!” said Beatrice reproachfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us have a song,” suggested Mr. Holiday. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Holiday wishes to sing, Mother,” said Vera, going to the music-rack. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay—I—it’s not me,” Holiday began. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The Village Blacksmith’,” said Vera, pulling out the piece. Holiday advanced. +Vera glanced at her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“But I have not touched the piano for—for years, I am sure,” protested +Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“You can play beautifully,” said Vera. +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice accompanied the song. Holiday sang atrociously. Allport glared at him. +Vera remained very calm. +</p> + +<p> +At the end Beatrice was overcome by the touch of the piano. She went out +abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother has suddenly remembered that tomorrow’s jellies are not made,” laughed +Vera. +</p> + +<p> +Allport looked at her, and was sad. +</p> + +<p> +When Beatrice returned, Holiday insisted she should play again. She would have +found it more difficult to refuse than to comply. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You, too, at the midnight lamp!” exclaimed MacWhirter politely. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I am only looking for a pudding for tomorrow,” Beatrice replied. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall feel hopelessly in debt if you look after us so well,” smiled the +young man ironically. +</p> + +<p> +“I must look after you,” said Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“You do—wonderfully. I feel that we owe you large debts of gratitude.” The +meals were generally late, and something was always wrong. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I scan a list of puddings?” smiled Beatrice uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +“For the puddings themselves, and all your good things. The piano, for +instance. That was very nice indeed.” He bowed to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Did it disturb you? But one does not hear very well in the study.” +</p> + +<p> +“I opened the door,” said MacWhirter, bowing again. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not fair,” said Beatrice. “I am clumsy now—clumsy. I once could play.” +</p> + +<p> +“You play excellently. Why that ‘once could’?” said MacWhirter. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you are amiable. My old master would have said differently,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“We,” said MacWhirter, “are humble amateurs, and to us you are more than +excellent.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Er—my acquaintance with modern languages is not extensive, I regret to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“No? I was brought up at a convent school near Rouen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—that would be very interesting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but I was there six years, and the interest wears off everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas!” assented MacWhirter, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Those times were very different from these,” said Beatrice. +</p> + +<p> +“I should think so,” said MacWhirter, waxing grave and sympathetic. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>XXXI</h2> + +<p> +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 +<i>Einsame Menschen</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“These little outside things always come a victory over you,” he laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know,” she said, “it feels rather like rain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” said he calmly, but turning away to watch the people below on the +pavement, “you certainly ought not to be out.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought not,” she said, “for I’m totally unprovided.” +</p> + +<p> +Neither, however, had the slightest intention of turning back. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“They are—” she began, in her slow manner. +</p> + +<p> +“Villa sheep-dogs baying us wolves,” he continued. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, “they remind me of Fafner and Fasolt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fasolt? They <i>are</i> like that. I wonder if they really dislike us.” +</p> + +<p> +“It appears so,” she laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Dogs generally chum up to me,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Helena began suddenly to laugh. He looked at her inquiringly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What an ass I must have looked!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Sort of silent Pied Piper,” she laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Dogs do follow me like that, though,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“They did Siegmund,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember they had for a long time a little brown dog that followed him +home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember, too,” she said, “a little black-and-white kitten that followed me. +Mater <i>would not</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“More sorrow over one kitten brought to destruction than over all the +sufferings of men,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She glanced at him and laughed. He was smiling ironically. +</p> + +<p> +“For the latter, you see,” she replied, “I am not responsible.” +</p> + +<p> +As they neared the top of the hill a few spots of rain fell. +</p> + +<p> +“You know,” said Helena, “if it begins it will continue all night. Look at +that!” +</p> + +<p> +She pointed to the great dark reservoir of cloud ahead. +</p> + +<p> +“Had we better go back?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +They walked on and on. The raindrops fell more thickly, then thinned away. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“What anniversary is it, then?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“We will go, then,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“History repeats itself,” he remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“How?” she asked calmly. +</p> + +<p> +He was pulling at the heads of the cocksfoot grass as he walked. +</p> + +<p> +“I see no repetition,” she added. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he exclaimed bitingly; “you are right!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“They got that hay rather damp,” he said. “Can’t you smell it—like hot tobacco +and sandal-wood?” +</p> + +<p> +“What, is that the stack?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it’s always like that when it’s picked damp.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it nice?” he said. “Aren’t they fine bits?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed, instinctively putting out her hand towards the glowing field on +her right. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Have you noticed how the thousands of dry twigs between the trunks make a +brown mist, a brume?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him suddenly as if interrupted. +</p> + +<p> +“H’m? Yes, I see what you mean.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled at him, because of his bright boyish tone and manner. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the larch fog,” he laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, “you see it in pictures. I had not noticed it before.” +</p> + +<p> +He shook the tree on which his hand was laid. +</p> + +<p> +“It laughs through its teeth,” he said, smiling, playing with everything he +touched. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Last year,” she said, “the larch-fingers stole both my pins—the same ones.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” said Byrne—“here is our tent—a black tartar’s—ready pitched.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are cold,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Only my hands, and they usually are,” she replied gently. +</p> + +<p> +“And mine are generally warm.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that,” she said. “It’s almost the only warmth I get now—your hands. +They really are wonderfully warm and close-touching.” +</p> + +<p> +“As good as a baked potato,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She pressed his hand, scolding him for his mockery. +</p> + +<p> +“So many calories per week—isn’t that how we manage it?” he asked. “On credit?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tong-tong, tong,” went the forlorn bell. The rain waxed louder. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t knock it—it is all right,” he had said, protesting. +</p> + +<p> +This was Siegmund’s violin, which Helena had managed to purchase, and Byrne was +always ready to yield its precedence. +</p> + +<p> +“It was all right,” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“But you were not,” she had replied gently. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The Babes in the Wood,” he teased. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The rain continues,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And will do,” she added, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite content,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The bird overhead chirruped loudly again. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Strew on us roses, roses,’” quoted Byrne, adding after a while, in wistful +mockery: “‘And never a sprig of yew’—eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Helena made a small sound of tenderness and comfort for him, and weariness for +herself. She let herself sink a little closer against him. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall it not be so—no yew?” he murmured. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall make marks on you,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“They will come off,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we come clean after everything. Time scrubs all sorts of scars off us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Some scars don’t seem to go,” she smiled. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s wearing off—even that,” he said wistfully. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That is better,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I was afraid of the pins,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been dodging them for the last hour,” he said, laughing, as she put her +arms under his coat again for warmth. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I want rest and warmth,” she said, in her dull tones. +</p> + +<p> +“All right!” he murmured. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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