 27 He hurried down the platform, wincing at every stride, from the memory of Helena's last look of mute, heavy yearning. He gripped his fists till they trembled, his thumbs were again closed under his fingers. Like a picture on a cloth before him he still saw Helena's face, white, rounded, in feature quite mute and expressionless, just made terrible by the heavy eyes pleading dumbly. He thought of her going on and on, still at the carriage window looking out, all through the night rushing west and west to the land of Isolde. Things began to haunt Siegmund like a delirium. He knew not where he was hurrying, always in front of him, as on a cloth was the face of Helena, while somewhere behind the cloth was Cornwall, a far-off lonely place where darkness came on intensely. Sometimes he saw a dim, small phantom in the darkness of Cornwall, very far off, then the face of Helena, white, inanimate as a mask, with heavy eyes, came between again. He was almost startled to find himself at home in the porch of his house. The door opened. He remembered to have heard the quick thud of feet. It was Vera. She glanced at him but said nothing. Instinctively she shrank from him. He passed without noticing her. She stood on the doormat, fastening the door, striving to find something to say to him. You have been over an hour, she said, still more troubled when she found her voice shaking. She had no idea what alarmed her. I returned Siegmund. He went into the dining-room and dropped into his chair, with his head between his hands. Vera followed him nervously. Will you have anything to eat? she asked. He looked up at the table, as if the supper laid there were curious and incomprehensible. The delirious lifting of his eyelids showed the whole of the dark pupils and the bloodshot white of his eyes. Vera held her breath with fear. He sank his head again and said nothing. Vera sat down and waited. The minutes ticked slowly off. Siegmund neither moved nor spoke. At last the clock struck midnight. She was weary with sleep, quarrelless with trouble. Aren't you going to bed? she asked. Siegmund heard her without paying any attention. He seemed only to half here. Vera waited a while, then repeated plaintively. Aren't you going to bed, Father? Siegmund lifted his head and looked at her. He loathed the idea of having to move. He looked at her confusedly. Yes, I'm going, he said, and his head dropped again. Vera knew he was not asleep. She dared not leave him till he was in his bedroom. Again she sat waiting. Father! she cried at last. He started up, gripping the arms of his chair, trembling. Yes, I'm going, he said. He rose and went unevenly upstairs. Vera followed him close behind. If he reels and falls backwards, he will kill me, she thought. But he did not fall. From habit he went into the bathroom. While trying to brush his teeth, he dropped the toothbrush onto the floor. I'll pick it up in the morning, he said, continuing deliriously. I must go to bed. I must go to bed. I am very tired. He stumbled over the doormat into his own room. Vera was standing behind the unclosed door of her room. She heard the snack 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. Segment undressed quickly. His one thought was to get into bed. One must sleep, he said, as he dropped his clothes on the floor. He could not find the way to put on his sleeping jacket, and that made him pant. Any little thing that roused or thwarted his mechanical action aggravated his sickness, till his brain seemed to be bursting. He got things right at last, and was in bed. Immediately he lapsed into a kind of unconsciousness. He would have called it sleep, but such it was not. All the time he could feel his brain working ceaselessly, like a machine running with unslackening rapidity. This went on, interrupted by little flickerings of consciousness, for three or four hours. Each time he had a glimmer of consciousness, he wondered if he made any noise. What am I doing? What is the matter? Am I unconscious? Do I make any noise? Do I disturb them? he wondered, and he tried to cast back to find the record of mechanical sense impression. He believed he could remember the sound of inarticulate murmuring in his throat. Immediately he remembered he could feel his throat producing the sounds. This frightened him. Above all things he was afraid of disturbing the family. He roused himself to listen. Everything was breathing in silence. As he listened to this silence, he relapsed into his sort of sleep. He was awakened finally by his own perspiration. He was terribly hot. The pillows, the bedclothes, his hair all seemed to be steaming with hot vapor, while 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. Segment 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 onto the bed. It was like the running of a spider over his sensitive, move-less body. Why he did not wipe himself, he did not know. He lay still and endured this horrible trickling 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. Though as he did not mind, he was blunt there. But they started again in tiny, vicious spurts down the sides of his chest, from under his armpits, down the inner sides of his thighs, till he seemed to have a myriad quivering tracks of a myriad running insects over his hot, wet, highly sensitized body. His nerves were trembling, one and all, with outrage and vivid suspense. It became unbearable. He felt that if he endured it another moment he would cry out or suffocate and burst. He sat up suddenly, threw away the bedclothes, from which came a puff of hot steam, and began to rub his pajamas 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 loathe as ever to move, but his brain was no longer clouded in hot vapor. It was clear. He sat bowing forward on the side of his 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. Segment sat up straight. His body was reanimated. 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. Segment sat in the doorway that gave onto the small veranda. The air was beautifully cool. He felt his chest again to make sure it was not clammy. It was as 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, grayer. 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, loathe to fly. Segment watched it with wonder and delight. The day was pushing aside the boughs of darkness, hunting. The poor moon would be caught when the net was flung. Segment 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. Segment 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. Segment sat watching the last morning, blowing in across the moon darkness, till the whole field of the world was exposed, till the moon was like a dead mouse which floats on water. When the few birds had called in the August morning, when the cocks had finished their crowing, when the minute sounds of the early day were a stir, Segment shivered, disconsolate. He felt tired again, yet he knew he could not sleep. The bed was repulsive to him. He sat in his chair at the open door, moving uneasily. What should have been sleep was an ache and a restlessness. He turned and twisted in his chair. Where is Helena? he asked himself, and he looked out on the morning. Everything out of doors was unreal, like a show, like a peep show. 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, wracked with pains. The question was, how should he reset himself into joint? The body of life for him meant Beatrice, his children, Helena, the comic opera, his friends of the orchestra. How could he set himself again into joint with these? It was impossible. Towards his family he would henceforward have to bear himself with humility. That was a cynicism. He would have to leave Helena which he could not do. He would have to play strenuously night after night the music of the saucy little switzer which was absurd. In fine it was all absurd and impossible. Very well then, that being so, what remained possible. Why? To depart. If thine hand offended thee, cut it off. He could cut himself off from life. It was plain and straightforward. But Beatrice, his young children, without him. He was bound by an agreement which there was no discrediting, to provide for them. Very well he must provide for them. And then what? Humiliation at home, Helena forsaken, musical comedy night after night. That was insufferable, impossible. Like a man tangled up in a rope he was not strong enough to free himself. He could not break with Helena and return to a degrading life at home. He could not leave his children and go to Helena. Very well. It was impossible. Then there remained only one door which he could open in this prison corridor of life. Segment 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. It straps flung loose. A portmanteau strap would do. Then it should be a portmanteau strap. Very well, said Segment. It is finally settled. I had better write to Helena and tell her, and say to her she must go on. I'd better tell her. He sat for a long time with his notebook and a pencil, but he wrote nothing. At last he gave up. Perhaps it is just as well, he said to himself. She said she would come with me. Perhaps that is just as well. She will go to the sea. When she knows, the sea will take her. She must know. He took a card, bearing her name and her Cornwall address from his pocketbook, and laid it on the dressing table. She will come with me, he said to himself, and his heart rose with elation. That is a cowardice, he added, looking doubtfully at the card, as if wondering whether to destroy it. It is in the hands of God. Beatrice may or may not send word to her at Tintagel. It is in the hands of God, he concluded. Then he sat down again. But for that fear of something after death, he quoted to himself. It is not fear, he said. The act itself will be horrible and fearsome, but the after death. It's no more than struggling awake when you're sick with a fright of dreams. We are such stuff as dreams are made on. Segment 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. Segment had always inwardly held faith that the heart of life beat kindly towards him. When he was cynical and sulky, he knew that in reality it was only a waywardness of his. The heart of life is implacable in its kindness. It may not be moved to fluttering of pity. It swings on uninterrupted by cries of anguish or of hate. Segment 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 the pity, what terror of vacillation, and who would wish to bear the responsibility of the deflection? Segment thanked God that life was pitiless, strong enough to take his treasures out of his hands and to thrust him out of the room. Otherwise how could he go with any faith to death? Otherwise he would have felt the helpless disillusion of a youth who finds his infallible parents weaker than himself. I know the heart of life is kind, said Segment, 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 proportionately as much zest, and my purpose towards my dog is good. I need not despair of life. It occurred to Segment that he was meriting the old jib of the atheists. He was shirking the responsibility of himself, turning it over to an imaginary God. Well, he said, I can't help it. I do not feel altogether self-responsible. The morning had waxed during these investigations. Segment had been vaguely aware of the rousing of the house. He was finally startled into a consciousness of the immediate present by the calling of Vera at his door. There are two letters for you, Father. He looked about him in bewilderment. The hours had passed in a trance, and he had no idea of his time and place. Oh, all right! he said, too much dazed to know what it meant. He heard his daughter going downstairs. Then swiftly returned over him the throbbing ache of his head and his arms, the discordant jarring of his body. What made her bring me the letters? he asked himself. It was a very unusual attention. His heart replied very sullen and shameful. She wanted to know. She wanted to make sure I was all right. Segment forgot all his speculations on a divine benevolence. The discord of his immediate situation overcame every harmony. He did not fetch in the letters. Is it so late? he said. Is there no more time for me? He went to look at his watch. It was a quarter to nine. As he walked across the room, he trembled, and a sickness made his bones feel rotten. He sat down on the bed. What am I going to do? he asked himself. By this time he was shuddering rapidly. A peculiar feeling, as if his belly were turned into nothingness, made him want to press his fists into his abdomen. He remained shuddering drunkenly, like a drunken man who is sick, incapable of thought or action. A second knock came at the door. He started with a jolt. Here is your shaving water, said Beatrice in cold tones. It's half past nine. All right, said Segment, rising from the bed, bewildered. And what time shall you expect dinner? asked Beatrice. She was still contemptuous. Any time, I'm not going out, he answered. He was surprised to hear the ordinary cool tone of his own voice, for he was shuddering uncontrollably and was almost sobbing. In a shaking, bewildered, disordered condition, he set about fulfilling his purpose. He was hardly conscious of anything he did. Try as he would, he could not keep his hands steady in the violent spasms of shuddering, nor could he call his mind to think. He was one shuddering turmoil, yet he performed his purpose methodically and exactly. In every particular he was thorough, as if he were the servant of some stern will. It was a mesmeric performance in which the agent trembled with convulsive sickness. End of Chapter 27. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 28 of The Trespasser. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Trespasser by D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 28. Segment's lying late in bed made Beatrice very angry. The later it became, the more wrathful she grew. At half past nine she had taken up his shaving water. Then she proceeded to tidy the dining-room, leaving the breakfast spread in the kitchen. Vera and Frank were gone up to town. They would both be home for dinner at two o'clock. Marjorie was dispatched 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 out of doors shone brightly and all indoors was dusked with coolness and colour. But Beatrice was angry. She moved rapidly and determinately about the dining-room, thrusting old newspapers and magazines between the cupboard and the wall, throwing the litter in the grate, which was clear, Friday having been Charwoman's Day, passing swiftly, lightly over the front of the furniture with the duster. It was Saturday, when she did not spend much time over the work. In the afternoon she was going out with Vera. That was not, however, what occupied her mind as she brushed aside her work. She had determined to have a settlement with Siegmund as to how matters should continue. She was going to have no more of the past three years' life. Things had come to a crisis, and there must be an alteration. Beatrice was going to do battle, therefore she flew at her work, thus stirring herself up to a proper heat of blood. All the time, as she thrust things out of sight, or straightened a cover, she listened for Siegmund to come downstairs. He did not come, so her anger waxed. He can lie skulking in bed, she said to herself. Here I've been up since seven, broiling at it. I should think he's pitying himself. He ought to have something else to do. He ought to have to go out to work every morning, like another man, as his son has to do. He has had too little work. He has had too much his own way. But it's come to a stop now. I'll serve and housekeeper him no longer. Beatrice went to clean the step of the front door. She clammed 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 pale and went upstairs. Her heart was beating so heavily in her throat that she had to stop on the landing, to recover her breath. She dreaded the combat with him. Suddenly controlling herself, she said loudly at Siegmund's door, her voice coldly hostile. Aren't you going to get up? There was not the faintest sound in the house. Beatrice stood in the gloom of the landing, her heart thudding in her ears. It's after half-past ten. Aren't you going to get up? She called. She waited again. Two letters lay unopened on a small table. Suddenly she put down her pale 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 her natural ring, so she thought. She ran downstairs in terror, fled out into the front garden, and there looked up at his room. The window door was open. Everything seemed quiet. Beatrice stood vacillating. She picked up a few tiny pebbles and flung them in a handful at his door. Some spattered on the pain sharply. Some dropped dullly 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 onto the road. By a mercy she saw the window-cleaner just pushing his ladder out of the passage of her house, a little farther down the road. She hurried to him. Will you come and see if there's anything wrong with my husband? She asked wildly. Why, Mum? asked the window-cleaner, who knew her, and was humbly familiar. Is he taken bad or something? Yes, I'll come. He was a tall, thin man with a brown beard. His clothes were all so loose, his trousers so baggy, that he gave one the impression his limbs must be bone, and his body a skeleton. He pushed at his ladders with a will. Where is he, Mum? He asked officiously, as they slowed down at the side passage. He's in his bedroom, and I can't get an answer from him. An eyes were one to ladder, said the window-cleaner, proceeding to lift one off his trolley. He was in a very great bustle. He knew which was Seekman's room. He had often seen Seekman rise from some music he was studying, and leave the drawing-room when the window-cleaning began, and afterwards he had found him in the small front bedroom. He also knew there were matrimonial troubles. Beatrice was not reserved. Is it the least of the front-rooms he's in? asked the window-cleaner. Yes, over the porch, replied Beatrice. The man bustled with his ladder. It's easy enough, he said. The door's open, and we're soon on the balcony. He set the ladder securely. Beatrice cursed him for a slow, officious fool. He tested the ladder to see it was safe. Then he cautiously clambered up. At the top he stood leaning sideways, bending over the ladder to peer into the room. He could see all sorts of things, for he was frightened. I say there, he called loudly. Beatrice stood below in horrible suspense. Go in, she cried. Go in, is he there? The man stepped very cautiously with one foot onto 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. Ah! he suddenly cried in terror, and he drew back. Beatrice was opening her mouth to scream, when the window-cleaner exclaimed weakly, as if dubious. I believe he's hanged himself from the door-ox. No, cried Beatrice. No, no, no. I believe he has, repeated the man. Go in and see if he's dead, cried Beatrice. The man remained in the doorway, peering fixedly. I believe he is, he said doubtfully. No, go and see! screamed Beatrice. The man went into the room, trembling, hesitating. He approached the body, as if fascinated. Shivering, he took it round the loins, and tried to lift it down. It was too heavy. I know, he said to himself, once more bustling, now he had something to do. He took his clasp-knife from his pocket, jammed the body between himself and the door, so that it should not drop, and began to saw his way through the leathern strap. It gave. He started, and clutched the body, dropping his knife. Beatrice, below in the garden, hearing the scuffle and the clatter, began to scream in hysteria. The man hauled the body of Siegmund, with much difficulty, onto 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 recognisable. End of Chapter 28. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey, Chapter 29 of The Trespasser. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. The Trespasser by D. H. Lawrence, Chapter 29. 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-fragment tranquillity. The journey down had been very tedious. After waiting for half an hour in the midnight turmoil of an August Friday in Waterloo Station, they had seized an empty carriage, only to be followed by five North Countrymen, all of whom were affected by whisky. Olive, Helena, Louisa occupied three corners of the carriage. The men were distributed between them. The three women were not alarmed. Their tipsy travelling companions promised to be tiresome, but they had a frank honesty of manner that placed them beyond suspicion. The train drew out westward. Helena began to count the miles that separated her from Segment. The North Countrymen began to be jolly. They talked loudly in their uncouth English. They sang the musical 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 to one another. They sat back in their seats, laughing, hiding their laughter by turning their backs on the men, who were a trifle disconcerted by this amusement. The trains 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 wearidly 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 Bazarov in fathers and sons, endorsing his opinion on the appearance of sleepers. All but Segment. Was Segment asleep? She imagined him breathing regularly on the pillows. She could see the under-arch of his eyebrows, the fine shape of his nostrils, the curve of his lips as she bent in fancy over his face. The dawn came slowly. It was rather cold. Olive wrapped herself in rugs and went to sleep again. Helena shivered and stared out of the window. There appeared a oneness in the night, and Helena felt inexpressibly dreary. A rosiness spread out far away. It was like a flock of flamingos hovering over a dark lake. The world vibrated as the sun came up. Helena awaked 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, 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 wagonnet amid blazing breathless sunshine, over country naked of shelter, ungracious and harsh. Why am I doing this? Helena asked herself. The three friends washed, dressed, and breakfasted. It was too hot to rest in the house, so they trudged to the coast, silently, each feeling in an ill humour. When Helena was really rested, she took great pleasure in Tintagel. In the first place she found that the cove was exactly, almost identically, the same as the Valhalla scene in Valkyra. In the second place Tristan was here, in the tragic country filled with the flowers of a late Cornish summer, an everlasting reality. In the third place it was a sea of marvellous portentous sunsets, of sweet morning baths, of pools blossomed with life, of terrible suave swishing of foam, which suggested the Anadiomini. In some it was the enchanted land of divided lovers. Helena forever hummed fragments of Tristan. As she stood on the rocks she sang, in her little half-articulate way, bits of Isolde's love, bits of Tristan's anguish, to Siegmund. She had not received her letter on Sunday. That had not very much disquieted her, though she was disappointed. On Monday she was miserable because of Siegmund's silence, but there was so much of enchantment in Tintagel, and Olive and Louisa were in such high spirits that she forgot most wiles. 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, always dark again, the thunder clapping directly. There wasn't that lovely, cried Louisa, speaking of the lightning. Oh, wasn't it magnificent, glorious! The door clicked and opened. Olive entered in her long white nightgown. She hurried to the bed. I say, dear, she exclaimed, may I come into the fold. I prefer the shelter of your company, dear, during this little lot. Don't you like it? cried Louisa. I think it's lovely, lovely. There came another slash of lightning. The night seemed to open and shut. It was a pallid vision of a ghost world, between the clanging shutters of darkness. Louisa and Olive clung to each other spasmodically. There exclaimed the former, breathless. That was fine. Helena, did you see that? She clasped ecstatically the hand of her friend, who was lying down. Helena's answer was extinguished by the burst of thunder. There's no accounting for tastes, said Olive, taking a place in the bed. I can't say I'm struck on lightning. What about you, Helena? I'm not struck yet, replied Helena, with a sarcastic attempt at a jest. Thank you, dear, said Olive, you do me the honour of catching hold. Helena laughed ironically. Catching what? asked Louisa, mystified. Why, dear, answered Olive heavily condescending to explain. I offered Helena the handle of a pun, and she took it. What a flash! You know it's not that I'm afraid. The rest of her speech was overwhelmed in thunder. Helena lay on the edge of the bed, listening to the ecstatics of one friend and to the impertenences 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 to swiftly and violently for her to understand. The thunder exclaimed horribly on the matter. She was sure something had happened. Gradually the storm drew away. The rain came down with a rush, persisted with a bruising sound upon the earth and the leaves. What a deluge! exclaimed Louisa. No one answered her. Olive was falling asleep, and Helena was in no mood to reply. Louisa disconciled, lay looking at the black window, nursing a grievance until she too drifted into sleep. Helena was awake. The storm had left her with a settled sense of calamity. She felt bruised. The sound of the heavy rain bruising the ground outside represented her feeling. She could not get rid of the bruised sense of disaster. She lay wondering what it was, why Segment had not written, what could have happened to him. She imagined all of them terrible and endued with grandeur, for she had kinship with Hedda Gabler. But no, she said to herself, it is impossible anything should have happened to him. I should have known. I should have known the moment his spirit left his body. He would have come to me. But I slept without dreams last night, and today I am sure there has been no crisis. It is impossible it should have happened to him. I should have known. She was very certain that in event of Segment's death she would have received intelligence. She began to consider all the causes which might arise to prevent his writing immediately to her. Nevertheless, she said at last, if I don't hear tomorrow I will go and see. She had written to him on Monday. If she should receive no answer by Wednesday morning, she would return to London. As she was deciding this, she went to sleep. The next day passed without news. Helena was in a state of distress. Her wistfulness touched the other two women very keenly. Louisa waited upon her, was very tender and solicitous. Olive, who was becoming painful by reason of her unsatisfied curiosity, had to be told in part of this state of affairs. Helena looked up a train. She was quite sure by this time that something fatal awaited her. The next morning she bade her friends a temporary goodbye, 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. I know I'm a pig, dear, am I not? she exclaimed. Spoiling your holiday, but I couldn't help it, dear. Indeed, I could not. My dear Lou! cried Olive in tragic contralto. Don't refrain for my sake. The bargain's made. We can't help what's in the bundle. The two unhappy women trudged the long miles back from the station to their lodging. Helena sat in the swinging express revolving the same thought like a prayer-wheel. It would be difficult to think of anything more trying than thus sitting motionless in the train, which itself is throbbing and bursting its heart with anxiety, while one waits hour after hour for the blow which falls nearer as the distance lessens. All the time Helena's heart and her consciousness were with Siegmund in London, for she believed he was ill and needed her. Promise me, she had said, if ever I was sick and wanted you, you would come to me. I would come to you from hell, Siegmund had replied. And if you were ill, would you let me come to you, she had added. I promise, he answered. Now Helena believed he was ill, perhaps very ill. Perhaps she only could be of any avail. The miles of distance were like hot bars of iron across her breast, and against them it was impossible to strive. The train did what it could. That day remains as a smear in the record of Helena's life. In it there is no spacing of hours, no lettering of experience, merely a smear of suspense. Towards six o'clock she alighted at Serbiton 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 pre-arranged everything minutely. After turning the newspaper several times, she found what she sought. The funeral took place at two o'clock today at Kingston Cemetery of Deceased was a professor of music, and had just returned from a holiday on the south coast. The paragraph in a balled twelve lines told her everything. Jury returned a verdict of suicide during temporary insanity. Sympathy was expressed for the widow and children. Helena stood still on the station for some time, looking at the print. Then she dropped the paper and wandered into the town, not knowing where she was going. That was what I got, she said, months afterwards, and it was like a brick. It was like a brick. She wandered on and on, until suddenly she found herself in the grassy lane, with only a wire fence bounding her from the open fields on either side. Beyond which fields, on the left, she could see Siegman's house standing floored by the road, catching the western sunlight. Then she stopped, realising 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. There was no direction for her to take. As if marooned in the world she stood desolate, looking from the house of Siegman over the fields and the hills. Siegman was gone. Why had he not taken her with him? The evening was drawing on. It was nearly half-past seven when Helena looked at her watch, remembering Louisa, who would be waiting for her to return to Cornwall. I must either go to her or wire to her. She will be in a fever of suspense, said Helena to herself, and straightway she hurried to catch a tram-car 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. Siegman dead. No train to-night. I'm going home. This done she took her ticket and sat down to wait. By the strength of her will everything she did was reasonable and accurate, but her mind was chaotic. It was like a brick, she reiterated, and that brutal simile was the only one she could find months afterwards to describe her condition. She felt as if something had crashed into her brain, stunning and maiming her. As she knocked at the door of home she was apparently quite calm. Her mother opened to her. What? Are you alone? cried Mrs. Verdon. Yes, Louisa did not come up, replied Helena, passing into the dining-room. As if by instinct she glanced on the mantelpiece to see if there was a letter. There was a newspaper cutting. She went forward and took it. It was from one of the London papers. Inquest was held to-day upon the body of— Helena read it, read it again, folded it up, and put it in her purse. Her mother stood watching her, consumed with distress and anxiety. How did you get to know? she asked. I went to Wimbledon and bought a local paper, replied the daughter, in her muted, toneless voice. Did you go to the house? asked the mother sharply. No, replied Helena. I was wondering whether to send you that paper, said her mother hesitatingly. Helena did not answer her. She wandered about the house mechanically, looking for something. Her mother followed her, trying very gently to help her. For some time Helena sat at table in the dining-room, staring before her. Her parents moved restlessly in silence, trying not to irritate her by watching her, praying for something to change the fixity of her look. They acknowledged themselves helpless. Like children they felt powerless and forlorn, and were very quiet. Won't you go to rest, Nelly? asked the father at last. He was an unobtrusive, obscure man, whose sympathy was very delicate, whose ordinary attitude was one of gentle irony. Won't you go to rest, Nelly? he repeated. Helena shivered slightly. Do my dear, her mother pleaded, let me take you to bed. Helena rose. She had a great horror of being fussed or petted. But this night she went dullly upstairs, and let her mother help her to undress. When she was in bed, the mother stood for some moments, looking at her, yearning to beseech her daughter to pray to God. But she dared not. Helena moved with a wild impatience under her mother's gaze. Shall I leave you the candle? said Mrs. Verdon. No, blow it out! replied the daughter. The mother did so, and immediately left the room, going downstairs to her husband. As she entered the dining-room, he glanced up timidly at her. She was a tall, erect woman. Her brown eyes, usually so swift and searching, were haggard with tears that did not fall. He bowed down, obliterating himself. His hands were tightly clasped. Will she be all right if you leave her? he asked. We must listen, replied the mother abruptly. The parents sat silent in their customary places. Presently Mrs. Verdon cleared the supper table, sweeping together a few crumbs from the floor, in the place where Helena had sat, carefully putting her pieces of broken bread under the loaf to keep moist. Then she sat down again. One could see she was keenly alert to every sound. The father had his hand to his head. He was thinking and praying. Mrs. Verdon suddenly rose, took a box of matches from the mantelpiece, and, hurrying her stately, heavy tread, went upstairs. Her husband followed in much trepidation, hovering near the door of his daughter's room. The mother tremblingly lit the candle. Helena's aspect distressed and alarmed her. The girl's face was masked as if in sleep, but occasionally it was crossed by a vivid expression of fear or horror. Her wide eyes showed the active insanity of her brain. From time to time she uttered strange, inarticulate sounds. Her mother held her hands and soothed her. Although she was hardly aware of the mother's presence, Helena was more tranquil. The father went downstairs and turned out the light. He brought his wife a large shawl which he put on the bed rail and silently left the room. Then he went and kneeled down by his own bedside and prayed. Mrs. Verdon watched her daughter's delirium, and all the time in a kind of mental chant invoked the help of God. Once or twice the girl came to herself, drew away her hand on recognizing the situation, and turned from her mother, who patiently waited until upon relapse she could soothe her daughter again. Helena was glad of her mother's presence, but she could not bear to be looked at. Towards morning the girl fell naturally asleep. The mother regarded her closely, lightly touched her forehead with her lips, and went away, having blown out the candle. She found her husband kneeling in his night-shirt by the bed. He muttered a few swift syllables and looked up as she entered. She is asleep, whispered the wife hoarsely. Is it a natural sleep? hesitated the husband. Yes, I think it is. I think she will be all right. Thank God! whispered the father almost inaudibly. He held his wife's hand as she lay by his side. He was the comforter. She felt as if now she might cry and take comfort and sleep. He, the quiet obliterated man, held her hand, taking the responsibility upon himself. End of chapter 29. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 30 of The Trespasser. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Trespasser by D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 30. Beatrice was careful not to let the blow of Siegman's death fall with full impact upon her. As it were, she dodged it. She was afraid to meet the accusation of the dead Siegman with the sacred jury of memories. When the event summoned her to stand before the bench of her own souls understanding, she fled, leaving the verdict upon herself eternally suspended. When the neighbours had come alarmed by her screaming, she had allowed herself to be taken away from her own house into the home of a neighbour. There the children were brought to her. There she wept and stared wildly about, as if by instinct seeking to cover her mind with confusion. The good neighbour controlled matters in Siegman'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 Siegman was locked. Beatrice avoided seeing the body of her husband. She gave him one swift glance, blinded by excitement. She never saw him after his death. She was equally careful to avoid thinking of him. Whenever her thoughts wandered towards a consideration of how he must have felt, what his inner life must have been, during the past six years, she felt herself dilate with terror, and she hastens to invoke protection. The children, she said to herself, the children, I must live for the children, I must think for the children. This she did, and with much success. All her tears and her wildness rose from terror and dismay, rather than from grief. She managed to fend back a grief that would probably have broken her. Vera was too practical-minded. She had too severe a notion of what ought to be, and what ought not, ever to put herself in her father's place, and try to understand him. She concerned herself with judging him sorrowfully, exonerating him in part, because Helena, that other, was so much more to blame. Frank, as a sentimentalist, wept over the situation, not over the person eye. The children were acutely distressed by the harassing behaviour of the elders, and longed for a restoration of equanimity. By common consent no word was spoken of Siegmund. As soon as possible after the funeral, Beatrice moved from south London to Harrow. The memory of Siegmund began to fade rapidly. Beatrice had had all her life a fancy for a more open, public form of living than that of a domestic circle. She liked strangers about the house. They stimulated her agreeably. Therefore, nine months after the death of her husband, she determined to carry out the scheme of her heart, and take in borders. 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 Walterns 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 solve their consciences so cheaply. Siegmund's father, a winsome old man with a heart of young gold, was always ready further to diminish his diminished income for the sake of his grandchildren. So Beatrice was set up in a fairly large house in Highgate, was equipped with two maids, and gentlemen were invited to come and board in her house. It was a huge adventure, wherein Beatrice was delighted. Vera was excited and interested. Frank was excited but doubtful and grudging. The children were excited, elated, wondering. The world was big with promise. Three gentlemen came before a month was out to Beatrice's establishment. She hoped shortly to get a fourth or a fifth. Her plan was to play hostess, and thus bestow on her boarders the inestimable blessing of family life. Breakfast was at eight thirty, and every one attended. Vera sat opposite Beatrice. Frank sat on the maternal right hand. Mr. McQuirter, who was superior, sat on the left hand. Next him sat Mr. Allport, whose opposite was Mr. Holliday. All were young men of less than thirty years. Mr. McQuirter 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 naive, 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. Holliday 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 skillful way in which she handled him, clipping him into shape, without hurting him. One evening in July, eleven months after the burial of Segment, Beatrice went into the dining-room, and found Mr. Allport sitting with his elbow on the windowsill, looking out on the garden. It was half past seven. The red rents between the foliage of the trees showed the sun was setting. A fragrance of evening-scented stocks filtered into the room through the open window. Towards the south the moon was budding out of the twilight. What! you hear all alone! exclaimed Beatrice, who had just come from putting the children to bed. I thought you had gone out. No! what's the use? replied Mr. Allport, turning to look at his landlady, of going out. There's nowhere to go. Oh, come! there's the heath and the city, and you must join a tennis club. Now, I know just the thing, the club to which Vera belongs. Ah, yes, you go down to the city. But there's nothing there. What I mean to say, you want a pal. And even then, well, he drawled the word. Well, it's merely escaping from yourself, killing time. Oh, don't say that, exclaimed Beatrice. You want to enjoy life. Just so, ah, just so, exclaimed Mr. Allport. But all the same. It's like this. You only get up to the same thing to-morrow. What I mean to say, what's the good, after all? It's merely living because you've got to. You are too pessimistic altogether for a young man. I look at it differently myself. Yet I'll be bound I have more cause for crumbling. What's the trouble now? Well, you can't lay your finger on a thing like that. What I mean to say, it's nothing very definite. But after all, what is there to do but to hop out of life as quickly as possible? That's the best way. Beatrice became suddenly grave. You talk in that way, Mr. Allport, she said. You don't think of the others. I don't know, he drawled. What does it matter? Look here, who'd care? What I mean to say, for long? That's all very easy, but it's cowardly, replied Beatrice gravely. Nevertheless, said Mr. Allport, it's true, isn't it? It is not, and I should know, replied Beatrice, drawing a cloak of reserve ostentatiously over her face. Mr. Allport looked at her and waited. Beatrice relaxed towards the pessimistic young man. Yes, she said, I call it very cowardly to want to get out of your difficulties in that way. Think what you inflict on other people. You men, you're all selfish. The burden is always left for the women. Up, then, said Mr. Allport, very softly and sympathetically, looking at Beatrice's black dress, I've no one depending on me. No, you haven't, but you've a mother and sister. The women always have to bear the brunt. Mr. Allport looked at Beatrice and found her very pathetic. Yes, they do rather, he replied sadly, tentatively waiting. My husband began Beatrice. The young man waited. My husband was one of your sort. He ran after trouble, and when he'd found it, he couldn't carry it off, and left it to me. Mr. Allport looked at her very sympathetically. You don't mean it, he exclaimed softly. Surely he didn't, Beatrice nodded, and turned aside her face. Yes, she said, I know what it is to bear that kind of thing, and it's no light thing I can assure you. There was a suspicion of tears in her voice. And when was this, then, that he asked Mr. Allport almost with reverence? Only last year, replied Beatrice. Mr. Allport made a sound expressing astonishment and dismay. Little by little, Beatrice told him so much. Her husband had got entangled with another woman. She herself had put up with it for a long time. At last she had brought matters to a crisis, declaring what she should do. He had killed himself, hanged himself, and left her penniless. Her people, who were very wealthy, had done for her as much as she would allow them. She and Frank and Vera had done the rest. She did not mind for herself. It was for Frank and Vera, who should be now enjoying their careless youth that her heart was heavy. There was silence for a while. Mr. Allport murmured his sympathy, and sat overwhelmed with respect for this little woman who was unbroken by tragedy. The bell rang in the kitchen. Vera entered. Oh, what a nice smell! Sitting in the dark, mother! I was just trying to cheer up, Mr. Allport. He is very despondent. Pray, do not overlook me, said Mr. Allport, rising and bowing. Well, I did not see you. Fancy you're sitting in the twilight, chatting with the mater. You must have been an unscrupulous bore, mamma. On the contrary, replied Mr. Allport. Mrs. McNair has been so good as to bear with me, making a fool of myself. In what way? asked Vera sharply. Mr. Allport is so despondent. I think he must be in love, said Beatrice playfully. Unfortunately, I am not. Or at least I'm not yet aware of it, said Mr. Allport, bowing slightly to Vera. She advanced and stood in the bay of the window, her skirt touching the young man's knees. She was tall and graceful. With her hands clasped behind her back, she stood looking up at the moon, now white upon the richly darkening sky. Don't look at the moon, Mrs. McNair. It's all rined, said Mr. Allport, in melancholy mockery. Somebody's bitten all the meat out of our slice of moon, and left us nothing but peel. It certainly does look like a piece of melon-shell, one portion, replied Vera. Never mind, Mrs. McNair, he said, whoever got the slice found it raw, I think. Oh, I don't know, she said. But isn't it a beautiful evening? I will just go and see if I can catch the Primrose's opening. What Primrose is, he exclaimed. Evening, Primrose is, there are some. Are there? he said in surprise. Vera smiled to herself. Yes, come and look, she said. The young man rose with a lacquery. Mr. Holliday came into the dining-room whilst they were down the garden. What, nobody in? they heard him exclaim. There is Holliday, murmured Mr. Allport resentfully. Vera did not answer. Holliday came to the open window, attracted by the fragrance. Oh, that's where you are! he cried in his nasal tenor, which annoyed Vera's trained ear. She wished she had not been wearing a white dress to betray herself. What have you got? he asked. Nothing in particular, replied Mr. Allport. Mr. Holliday sniggered. Oh, wow, if it's nothing particular and private, said Mr. Holliday, and with that he leaped over the window sill and went to join them. Cursed fool! muttered Mr. Allport. I beg your pardon! he added swiftly to Vera. Have you ever noticed, Mr. Holliday? asked Vera, as if very friendly. How awfully tantalising these flowers are. They won't open while you're looking. No, sniggered he. I don't blame them. Why should they give themselves away any more than you do? You won't open while you're watched. He nudged Allport facetiously with his elbow. After supper, which was late and badly served, the young men were in poor spirits. Mr. McQuirter retired to read. Mr. Holliday sat picking his teeth. Mr. Allport begged Vera to play the piano. Oh, the piano is not my instrument. Mine was the violin. But I do not play now, she replied. But you will begin again, pleaded Mr. Allport. No, never, she said decisively. Allport looked at her closely. The family tragedy had something to do with her decision. He was sure. He watched her, interestingly. Mother used to play, she began. Vera, said Beatrice, reproachfully. Let us have a song, suggested Mr. Holliday. Mr. Holliday wishes to sing, Mother, said Vera, going to the music rack. No, it's not me. Holliday began. The village blacksmith, said Vera, pulling out the piece. Holliday advanced. Vera glanced at her mother. But I have not touched the piano for years, I'm sure. Protested Beatrice. You can play beautifully, said Vera. Beatrice accompanied the song. Holliday sang atrociously. Allport glared at him. Vera remained very calm. At the end Beatrice was overcome by the touch of the piano. She went out abruptly. Mother has suddenly remembered that tomorrow's jellies are not made, laughed Vera. Allport looked at her and was sad. When Beatrice returned, Holliday insisted she should play again. She would have found it more difficult to refuse than to comply. Vera retired early, soon to be followed by Allport and Holliday. At half past ten Mr. McQuirter came in with his ancient volume. Beatrice was studying a cookery book. You too at the midnight lamp, exclaimed Mr. McQuirter politely. Ah, I'm only looking for a pudding for tomorrow, Beatrice replied. We shall feel hopelessly in debt if you look after us so well, smiled the young man ironically. I must look after you, said Beatrice. You do wonderfully. I feel that we owe you large debts of gratitude. The meals were generally late, and something was always wrong. Because I scan a list of puddings, smiled Beatrice uneasily. For the puddings themselves, and all your good things, the piano, for instance, that was very nice indeed, he bowed to her. Did it disturb you? But one does not hear very well in the study. I opened the door, said McQuirter, bowing again. It is not fair, said Beatrice. I am clumsy now, clumsy. I once could play. You play excellently. Why that once could, said McQuirter. Ah, you are amiable. My old master would have said differently, she replied. We, said McQuirter, are humble amateurs, and to us you are more than excellent. Good old Monsieur Fanierre, 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? Ah, my acquaintance with modern languages is not extensive, I regret to say. No, I was brought up at a convent school near Huang. Ah, that would be very interesting. Yes, but I was there six years, and the interest wears off everything. Alas! assented McQuirter, smiling. Those times were very different from these, said Beatrice. I should think so, said McQuirter, waxing grave and sympathetic. End of Chapter 30. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 31 of The Trespasser. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. The Trespasser by D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 31. In the same month of July, not yet a year after Siegmund's death, Helena sat on the top of the tram-car with Sissel Byrne. She was dressed in blue linen, for the day had been hot. Byrne was holding up to her a yellow-backed copy of Einzama Mention, and she was humming the air of the Russian folk-song, printed on the front page, frowning, nodding with her head and beating time with her hand to get the rhythm of the song. She turned suddenly to him and shook her head, laughing. I can't get it. It's no use. I think it's the swinging of the car prevents me getting the time, she said. These little outside things always come a victory over you, he laughed. Do they, she replied, smiling, bending her head against the wind. It was six o'clock in the evening. The sky was quite overcast after a dim, warm day. The tram-car was leaping along southwards. Out of the corners of his eyes, Byrne watched the crisp morsels of hair shaken on her neck by the wind. Do you know, she said, it feels rather like rain. Then, said he calmly, but turning away to watch the people below on the pavement, you certainly ought not to be out. I ought not, she said, for I'm totally unprovided. Neither, however, had the slightest intention of turning back. Presently they descended from the car and took a road leading uphill off the highway. Trees hung over one side, whilst on the other side stood a few villas with lawns upraised. Upon one of these lawns, two great sheep-dogs rushed and stood at the brink of the grassy declivity, at some height above the road, barking and urging boisterously. Helena and Byrne stood still to watch them. One dog was grey, as is usual, the other pale fawn. They raved extravagantly at the two pedestrians. Helena laughed at them. They are, she began in her slow manner. Villa sheep-dogs, baying us wolves, he continued. No, she said, they remind me of Pfaffner and Fassolt. Fassolt! They are like that. I wonder if they really dislike us. It appears so, she laughed. Dogs generally chum up to me, he said. Helena began suddenly to laugh. He looked at her inquiringly. I remember, she said, still laughing, at Knockholt, you, a half-grown lamb, a dog, in procession. She marked the position of the three with her finger. What an ass I must have looked, he said. Sort of silent pied-piper, she laughed. Dogs do follow me like that, though, he said. They did segment, she said. Ah, he exclaimed. I remember they had for a long time a little brown dog that followed him home. Ah, he exclaimed. I remember, too, she said, a little black-and-white kitten that followed me. Mater would not have it in. She would not. And I remember finding it, a few days after, dead in the road. I don't think I ever quite forgave my Mater that. More sorrow over one kitten brought to destruction than over all the sufferings of men, he said. She glanced at him and laughed. He was smiling ironically. For the latter, you see, she replied, I am not responsible. As they neared the top of the hill, a few spots of rain fell. You know, said Helena, if it begins, it will continue all night. Look at that! She pointed to the great dark reservoir of cloud ahead. Had we better go back, he asked. Well, we will go on and find a thick tree. Then we can shelter till we see how it turns out. We are not far from the cars here. They walked on and on. The raindrops fell more thickly, then thinned away. It is exactly a year to-day, she said, as they walked on the round shoulder of the down, with an oak wood on the left hand. Exactly! What anniversary is it, then, he inquired. Exactly a year to-day, Seagland and I walked here, by the day, Thursday. We went through the larchwood. Have you ever been through the larchwood? No. We will go, then, she said. History repeats itself, he remarked. How, she asked calmly, he was pulling at the heads of the cocksfoot grass as he walked. I see no repetition, she added. No, he exclaimed, bitingly, you are right. They went on in silence. As they drew near a farm, they saw the men unloading a last wagon of hay onto a very brown stack. He sniffed the air. Though he was angry, he spoke. They got that hay rather damp, he said. Can't you smell it? Like hot tobacco and sandalwood. What is that the stack, she asked? Yes, it's always like that when it's picked damp. The conversation was restarted, but did not flourish. When they turned on to a narrow path by the side of the field, he went ahead. Leaning over the hedge, he pulled three sprigs of honeysuckle, yellow as butter, full of scent. Then he waited for her. She was hanging her head, looking in the hedge-bottom. He presented her with the flowers, without speaking. She bent forward, inhaled the rich fragrance, and looked up at him over the blossoms, with her beautiful, beseeching blue eyes. He smiled gently to her. Isn't it nice? he said. Aren't they fine bits? She took them without answering, and put one piece carefully in her dress. It was quite against her rule to wear a flower. He took his place by her side. I always like the gold-green of cut fields, he said. They seem to give off sunshine, even when the sky is grayer than a tabby-cat. She laughed, instinctively putting out her hand towards the glowing field on her right. They entered the larch wood. There the chill wind was changed into sound. Like a restless insect, he hovered about her, like a butterfly whose antennae flicker and twitch sensitively as they gather intelligence, touching the aura, as it were, of the female. He was exceedingly delicate in his handling of her. The path was cut windingly through the lofty, dark, and closely serried trees, which vibrated like cords 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. Hallinus stood still, gazing up at the treetops where the bow of the wind was drawn, causing slight perceptible quivering. Byrne walked on without her. At a bend in the path he stood with his hand on the roundness of a larch trunk, looking back at her, a blue fleck in the brownness of congregated trees. She moved very slowly down the path. I might as well not exist, for all she is aware of me, he said to himself bitterly. Nevertheless, when she drew near, he said brightly, Have you noticed how the thousands of dry twigs between the trunks make a brown mist, a broom? She looked at him suddenly, as if interrupted. Hmm, yes, I see what you mean. She smiled at him because of his bright boyish tone and manner. That's the larch fog, he laughed. Yes, she said, you see it in pictures. I had not noticed it before. He shook the tree on which his hand was laid. It laughed through its teeth, he said, smiling, playing with everything he touched. As they went along she caught swiftly at her hat, then she stooped, picking up a hat pin of twined silver. She laughed to herself as if pleased by a coincidence. Last year, she said, the larch fingers stole both my pins, the same ones. He looked at her, wondering how much he was filling the place of a ghost with warmth. He thought of Siegmund, and seemed to see him swinging down the steep bank out of the wood exactly as he himself was doing at the moment, with Helena stepping carefully behind. He always felt a deep sympathy and kinship with Siegmund. Sometimes he thought he hated Helena. They had emerged at the head of a shallow valley, one of those wide hollows in the North Downs that are like a great length of tapestry held loosely by four people. It was raining. Bern looked at the dark blue dots rapidly appearing on the sleeves of Helena's dress. They walked on a little way. The rain increased. Helena looked about for shelter. Here, said Bern, here is our tent, a black tartar's, ready-pitched. He stooped under the low boughs of a very large yew-tree that stood just back from the path. She crept after him. It was really a very good shelter. Bern 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 dong-ding-dong 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, bleeding and pushing each other in their anxiety to reach the place of desire, which was no wit better than where they stood before. That's like us all, said Bern 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 cozy. Helena laughed swiftly, as she always did when he became whimsical and fretful. He sat with his head bent down, smiling with his lips, but his eyes melancholy. She put her hand out to him. He took it without apparently observing it, folding his own hand over it, and unconsciously increasing the pressure. You are cold, he said. Only my hands, and they usually are, she replied gently. And mine are generally warm. I know that, she said. It's almost the only warmth I get now, your hands. They really are wonderfully warm and close touching. As good as a baked potato, he said. She pressed his hand, scolding him for his mockery. So many calories per week. Isn't that how we manage it, he asked, on credit. She put her other hand on his, as if beseeching him to forego his irony, which hurt her. They sat silent for some time. The sheep broke their cluster, and began to straddle back to the upper side of the pen. Went the forlorn bell. The rain waxed louder. Bern was thinking of the previous week. He had gone to Helena's home to read German with her as usual. She wanted to understand Wagner in his own language. In each of the armchairs, reposing across the arms was a violin case. He had sat down on the edge of one seat, in front of the sacred fiddle. Helena had come quickly and removed the violin. I shan't knock it. It is all right, he had said, protesting. This was Siegmund's violin, which Helena had managed to purchase, and Bern was always ready to yield its precedence. It was all right, he repeated. But you were not, she had replied gently. Since that time his heart had beat quick with excitement. Now he sat in a little storm of agitation, of which nothing was betrayed by his gloomy, pondering expression, but some of which was communicated to Helena by the increasing pressure of his hand, which adjusted itself delicately in a stronger and stronger stress over her fingers and palm. By some movement he became aware that her hand was uncomfortable. He relaxed. She sighed, as if restless and dissatisfied. She wondered what he was thinking of. He smiled quietly. The babes in the wood, he teased. Helena laughed with a sound of tears. In the tree overhead, some bird began to sing, in spite of the rain, a broken evening song. That little beggar sees it's a hopeless case, so he reminds us of heaven. But if he's going to cover us with you leaves, he'd set himself a job. Helena laughed again and shivered. He put his arm round her, drawing her nearer his hand, drawing her nearer his warmth. After this new and daring move, neither spoke for a while. The rain continues, he said. And will do, she added, laughing. Quite content, he said. The bird overhead chirruped loudly again. Struonus roses, roses, quoted Byrne, adding after a while, in wistful mockery. And never a sprig of you, eh? Helena made a small sound of tenderness and comfort for him, and weariness for herself. She let herself sink a little closer against him. Shall it not be so, no you, he murmured. He put his left hand, with which she had been breaking larch twigs, on her chilled wrist. Noticing that his fingers were dirty, he held them up. I shall make marks on you, he said. They will come off, she replied. Yes, we come clean after everything. Time scrubs all sorts of scars off us. Some scars don't seem to go, she smiled. And she held out her other arm, which had been pressed warm against his side. There, just above the wrist, was the red sun inflammation from last year. Byrne regarded it gravely. But it's wearing off even that, he said wistfully. Helena put her arms round him under his coat. She was cold. She felt a hot wave of joy suffuse him. Almost immediately she released him, and took off her hat. That is better, he said. I was afraid of the pins, said she. I've been dodging them for the last hour, he said, laughing, as she put her arms under his coat again for warmth. She laughed, and making a small moaning noise, as if of weariness and helplessness, she sank her head on his chest. He put down his cheek against hers. I want rest and warmth, she said, in her dull tones. All right, he murmured. End of chapter 31. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. End of The Trespasser by D. H. Lawrence.