 22 Segment went up to Victoria. He was in no hurry to get down to Wimbledon. London was warm and exhausted after the hot day, but this peculiar lukewarmness was not unpleasant to him. He chose to walk from Victoria to Waterloo. The streets were like polished gun-metal, glistened over with gold. The taxi-cabs, the wild-cats of the town, swept over the gleaming floor swiftly, soon lessening in the distance as if scornful of the other clumsy-footed traffic. He heard the merry-click-clock of the swinging handsoms, 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 curb and stood there panting—great nervous clumsy things. Segment 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 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 has drew near to the pure gold streets of heaven, but this noise could not be endured near any wonderland. Segment 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 Segment 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 Segment smiled. When the street opened at Westminster he noticed the city sky, a lovely deep purple, and the lamps in the square steaming out a vapour of grey-gold light. It is a wonderful night, he said to himself. There are not two such in a year. He went forward to the embankment with a feeling of elation in his heart. This purple and gold grey world, with the fluttering flame-warmths of soldiers, and the quick brightness of women like lights that clip sharply in a draught, was a revelation to him. As he leaned upon the embankment-parapet, the wonder did not fade, but rather increased. The trams, one after another, floated loftily over the bridge. They went like great burning bees in an endless file into a hive, past those which were drifting dreamily out, while below, on the black distorted water, golden serpents flashed and twisted to and fro. Ah! said Segment to himself. It is far too wonderful for me. Here, as well as by the sea, the night is gorgeous and uncouth. Whatever happens, the world is wonderful. So he went on amid all the vast miracle of movement in the city-night, the swirling of water to the sea, the gradual sweep of the stars, the floating of many lofty, luminous cars through the bridged darkness, like an army of angels filing past on one of God's campaigns, the purring haste of the taxes, the slightly dancing shadows of people. Segment went on slowly, like a slow bullet winging into the heart of life. He did not lose this sense of wonder, not in the train, nor as he walked home in the moonless dark. When he closed the door behind him and hung up his hat, he frowned. He did not think definitely of anything, but his frown meant to him, now for the beginning of hell. He went towards the dining-room where the light was, and the uneasy murmur. The clock, with its deprecating suave chime, was striking ten. Segment opened the door of the room. Beatrice was sowing 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. Segment 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-armed chair remained by the fireplace. His slippers were standing under the sideboard as he had left them. Segment sat down in the creaking chair. He began to feel sick and tired. I suppose the children are in bed, he said. His wife sewed on as if she had not heard him. His daughter noisily turned over a leaf and continued to read, as if she were pleasantly interested and had known no interruption. Segment waited, with his slipper dangling from his hand, looking from one to another. They had been gone two hours, said Frank at last, still without raising his eyes from the book. His tone was contemptuous, his voice was jarring, not yet having developed a man's fullness. Segment 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. Segment rested his arms upon his knees and sat leaning forward, looking into the barren fireplace which was littered with paper and orange peel and a banana skin. Do you want any supper? asked Beatrice, and the sudden harshness of her voice startled him into looking at her. She had her face averted, refusing to see him. Segment's heart went down with weariness and despair at the sight of her. Aren't you having any? he asked. The table was not laid. Beatrice's work-basket, a little wicker fruit-skep, overflowed scissors and pins and scraps of holland and reels of cotton on the green surge-cloth. Vera leaned both her elbows on the table. Instead of replying to him, Beatrice went to the sideboard. She took out a tablecloth, pushing her sewing-litter aside, and spread the cloth over one end of the table. Vera gave her magazine a little knock with her hand. Have you read this tale of a French convent school in here, mother? she asked. In where? In this month's nashes. No, replied Beatrice, what time have I for reading, much less for anything else? You should think more of yourself and a little less of other people, then," said Vera, with a snare at the other people. She rose. Let me do this. You sit down. You are tired, mother," she said. Her mother, without replying, went out to the kitchen. Vera followed her. Frank, left alone with his father, moved uneasily, and bent his thin shoulders lower over his book. Segment 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 the utmost brevity. Presently Vera came in with the tray. She put down a cup of coffee, a plate with boiled ham, pink and thin, such as is bought from a grocer, and some bread and butter. Then she sat down, noisily turning over the leaves of her magazine. Frank glanced at the table. It was laid solely for his father. He looked at the bread and the meat, but restrained himself, and went on reading, or pretended to do so. This came in with the small crewit. It was conspicuously bright. Everything was correct. Knife and fork, spoon, crewit, 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 Segment. 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 sow. "'What do you say, mother?' said Vera, as if resuming a conversation. Shall it be Hampton Court or Richmond on Sunday?' "'I say, as I said before,' replied Beatrice, I cannot afford to go out. But you must begin, my dear, and Sunday shall see the beginning. Deet-donk!' "'There are other things to think of,' said Beatrice. "'Now, mamma, nous avons changé tout cela. We are going out. A jolly little razzle!' Vera, who was rather handsome, lifted up her face and smiled at her mother gaily. "'I am afraid there will be no razzle!' Beatrice accented the word, smiling slightly. "'For me, you are slangy, Vera. Ah, dos-ar gomme, amère! You look tired!' Beatrice glanced at the clock. "'I will go to bed when I have cleared the table,' she said." Segment winced. He was still sitting with his head bent down, looking into the grate. Vera went on to say something more. Presently Frank looked up at the table and remarked in his grating voice. "'There's your supper, father!' The women stopped and looked round at this. Segment bent his head lower. Vera resumed her talk. It died out, and there was silence. Segment was hungry. "'Oh, good Lord, good Lord! Bread of humiliation to-night,' 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. He went through the ordeal of eating and drinking in presence of his family. If he had not been hungry he could not have done it, despite the fact that he was content to receive humiliation this night. He swallowed the coffee with effort. When he had finished, he sat irresolute for some time. Then he arose and went to the door. "'Good night,' he said. Nobody made any reply. Frank merely stirred in his chair. Segment shut the door and went. There was absolute silence in the room till they heard him turn on the tap in the bathroom. Then Beatrice began to breathe spasmodically, catching her breath as if she would sob. But she restrained herself. The faces of the two children set hard with hate. "'He is not worth the flicking of your little finger, mother,' said Vera. Beatrice moved about with pitiful, groping hands, collecting her sewing and her cottons. "'At any rate, he's come back red enough,' said Frank in his grating tone of contempt. "'He's like boiled salmon!' Beatrice did not answer anything. Frank rose and stood with his back to the grate in his father's characteristic attitude. "'He would come slinking back in a funk,' he said with a young man's sneer. Stretching forward he put a piece of ham between two pieces of bread and began to eat the sandwich in large bites. Vera came to the table at this and began to make herself a more dainty sandwich. Frank watched her with jealous eyes. "'There is a little more ham, if you'd like it,' said Beatrice to him. "'I kept you some.' "'All right, ma,' he replied, fetch it in.' Beatrice went out to the kitchen. "'And bring the bread and butter, too, will you?' called Vera after her. "'The damned coward! ain't he a rotten thunker,' said Frank Soto Voce, while his mother was out of the room. Vera did not reply, but she seemed tacitly to agree. They petted their mother while she waited on them. At length Frank yawned. He fidgeted a moment or two, then he went over to his mother, and putting his hand on her arm. The feel of his mother's round arm under the black silk sleeve made his tears rise. He said more gratingly than ever. "'Nah, mind, ma, we'll be all right to you.' Then he bent and kissed her. "'Good night, mother,' he said awkwardly, and he went out of the room.' Beatrice was crying. End of chapter 22. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere, Surrey. Chapter 23 of The Trespasser. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Trespasser by D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 23. "'I shall never re-establish myself,' said Segment, 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 judgment 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 to-night.' 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, but he might feel the delight of it a little farther. His neck he swilled time after time, and it seemed to him he laughed with pleasure as the water caught him and fell away. The towel reminded him how sore were his forehead and his neck, blistered both to a state of rawness by the sun. He touched them very cautiously to dry them, wincing, and smiling at his own childish touch and shrink. Though his bedroom was very dark, he did not light the gas. Instead he stepped out into the small balcony. His shirt was open at the neck and wrists. He pulled it farther apart, bearing 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. Father, lamps like little mushroom groups shone amid an undergrowth of darkness. There was a vague hoarse noise filling the sky, like the whispering in a shell, and this breathing of the summer night occasionally swelled into a restless sigh as a train roared across the distance. What a big night! thought Siegmund. The night gathers everything into a oneness. I wonder what is in it? He leaned forward over the balcony, trying to catch something out of the night. He felt his soul like tendrils stretched out anxiously to grasp a hold. What could he hold to in this great hoarse breathing night? A star fell. It seemed to burst into sight just across his eyes with a yellow flash. He looked up, unable to make up his mind whether he had seen it or not. There was no gap in the sky. It is a good sign, a shooting star, he said to himself. It is a good sign for me. I know I am right. That was my sign. Having assured himself, he stepped indoors, unpacked his bag, and was soon in bed. This is a good bed, he said, and the sheets are very fresh. He lay for a little while with his head bending forwards, looking from his pillow out at the stars. Then he went to sleep. At half-past six in the morning he suddenly opened his eyes. What is it? he asked, and almost without interruption answered, Well, I've got to go through it. His sleep had shaped him perfect premonition, which, like a dream, he forgot when he awoke. Only this naive question and answer betrayed what had taken place in his sleep. Immediately he awoke. This subordinate knowledge vanished. Another fine day was striding in triumphant. The first thing Siegmund did was to salute the morning because of its brightness. The second thing was to call to mind the aspect of that bay in the Isle of Wight. What would it just be like now? he said to himself. He had to give his heart some justification for the peculiar pain left in it from his sleep activity. So he began poignantly to long for the place which had been his during the last mornings. He pictured the garden with roses and nasturtiums. He remembered the sunny way down the shore and all the expanse of sea hung softly between the tall white cliffs. It is impossible, it is gone, he cried to himself. It can't be gone. I looked forward to it as if it never would come. It can't be gone now. Helena is not lost to me, surely. Then he began a long pining for the departed beauty of his life. He turned the jewel of memory and facet by facet it wounded him with its brilliant loveliness. This pain, though it was keen, was half-pleasure. Presently he heard his wife stirring. She opened the door of the room next to his, and he heard her. Frank, it's a quarter to eight. You will be late. All right, mother, why didn't you call me sooner? grumbled the lad. I didn't wake myself. I didn't go to sleep till morning, and then I slept. She went downstairs. Siegmund listened for his son to get out of bed. The minutes passed. The young donkey, why doesn't he get out? said Siegmund angrily to himself. He turned over, pressing himself upon the bed in anger and humiliation, because now he had no authority to call to his son and keep him to his duty. Siegmund waited, writhing with anger, shame and anxiety. When the suave of velvety, ban, ban, of the clock was heard striking, Frank stepped with a thud onto the floor. He could be heard dressing in clumsy haste. Beatrice called from the bottom of the stairs. Do you want any hot water? You know there isn't time for me to shave now, answered her son, lifting his voice to a kind of broken falsetto. The scent of the cooking of bacon filled the house. Siegmund heard his second daughter, Marjorie, 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 Marjorie, shouting from the top of the stairs. Mum. She wailed. Mum. Still Beatrice did not hear her. Mum. Mumma. Beatrice was in the scullery. Mumma. The child was getting impatient. She lifted her voice and shouted. Mum. Mumma. Still no answer. Mum. Me. She squealed. Siegmund could hardly contain himself. Why don't you go down and ask? Vera called crossly from the bedroom, and at the same moment Beatrice answered also crossly. What do you want? Where's my stockings? cried the child at the top of her voice. Why do you ask me? Are they down here? replied her mother. What are you shouting for? The child plodded down the stairs. Directly she returned, and as she passed into Vera's room, she grumbled. And now they're not mended. Siegmund heard a sound that made his heart beat. It was the crackling of the sides of the crib, as Gwen, his little girl of five, climbed out. She was silent for his 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. Mum. Siegmund heard her say as she went down the hall. As dad come. The answer and the child's further talk were lost in the distance of the kitchen. The small anxious question, and the quick thudding of Gwen's feet, made Siegmund lie still with torture. He wanted to hear no more. He lay shrinking within himself. It seemed that his soul was sensitive to madness. He felt that he could not come what might get up and meet them all. The front door banged, and he heard Frank's hasty call. Good-bye! Evidently the lad was in an ill humour. Siegmund listened for the sound of the train. It seemed an age. The boy would catch it. Then the water from the wash-hand-bowl in the bathroom ran loudly out. That, he suggested, was Vera, who was evidently not going up to town. At the thought of this Siegmund almost hated her. He listened for her to go downstairs. It was nine o'clock. The footsteps of Beatrice came upstairs. She put something down in the bathroom, his hot water. Siegmund listened intently for her to come to his door. Would she speak? She approached hurriedly, knocked and waited. Siegmund startled, for the moment could not answer. She knocked loudly. All right! said he. Then she went downstairs. He lay probing and torturing himself for another half-hour, till Vera's voice said coldly beneath his window outside. You should clear away, then. We don't want the breakfast things on the table for a week. Siegmund's heart set hard. He rose with a shut mouth and went across to the bathroom. There he started. The quaint figure of Gwen stood at the bowl. Her back was towards him. She was sponging her face gingerly. Her hair, all bloused from the pillow, was tied in a stiff little pigtail, standing out from her slender, childish neck. Her arms were bare to the shoulder. She wore a bodiced petticoat of pink flannelette, which hardly reached her knees. Siegmund felt slightly amused to see her stout little calves planted so firmly close together. She carefully sponged her cheeks, her pursed-up mouth and her neck, soaping her hair but not her ears. Then, very deliberately, she squeezed out the sponge and proceeded to wipe away the soap. For some reason or other she glanced round. Her startled eyes met his. She, too, had beautiful dark blue eyes. She stood with the sponge at her neck, looking full at him. Siegmund felt himself shrinking. The child's look was steady, calm, inscrutable. Hello! said her father. Are you here? The child, without altering her expression in the slightest, turned her back on him and continued wiping her neck. She dropped the sponge in the water and took the towel from off the side of the bath. Then she turned to look again at Siegmund, who stood in his pyjamas before her. His mouth shut hard, but his eyes shrinking and tender. She seemed to be trying to discover something in him. Have you washed your ears? he said gaily. She paid no heed to this, except that he noticed her face now wore a slight constrained smile as she looked at him. She was shy. Still she continued to regard him curiously. There is some chocolate on my dressing table, he said. Where have you been, too? she said suddenly. To the seaside, he answered smiling. To Brighton, she asked, her tone was still condemning. Much farther than that, he replied. To Worthing, she asked. Father, in a steamer, he replied. But who did you go with? asked the child. Why, I went all by myself, he answered. Twooly, she asked. Weerly and twooly, he answered, laughing. Couldn't you take me? she asked. I will next time, he replied. The child looked at him unsatisfied. But what did you go for? she asked, goading him suspiciously. To see the sea and the ships, and the fighting ships with cannons. You might have taken me, said the child reproachfully. Yes, I ought to have done autentie, he said, as if regretful. Gwen still looked full at him. You are red, she said. He glanced quickly in the glass, and replied, That is the sun, hasn't it been hot? Mmm, it made my nose all peel. Vera said she would scrape me like a new potato. The child laughed, and turned shyly away. Come here, said Siegmund. I believe you've got a tooth out, haven't you? He was very cautious and gentle. The child drew back. He hesitated, and she drew away from him, unwilling. Come and let me look, he repeated. She drew farther away, and the same constrained smile appeared on her face, shy, suspicious, condemning. Aren't you going to get your chocolate? he asked, as the child hesitated in the doorway. She glanced into his room, and answered, I've got to go to mam and have my hair done. Her awkwardness and her lack of compliance insulted him. She went downstairs without going into his room. Siegmund, rebuffed by the only one in the house from whom he might have expected friendship, proceeded slowly to shave, feeling sick at heart. He was a long time over his toilet. When he stripped himself of the bath, it seemed to him he could smell the sea. He bent his head and licked his shoulder. It tasted decidedly salt. A pity to wash it off, he said. As he got up dripping from the cold bath, he felt for the moment exhilarated. He rubbed himself smooth. Glancing down at himself, he thought, I look young, I look as young as twenty-six. He turned to the mirror. There he saw himself a mature, complete man of forty. With grave years of experience on his countenance. I used to think that when I was forty, he said to himself, I should find everything straight as the nose on my face, walking through my affairs as easily as you like. Now I am no more sure of myself, have no more confidence than a boy of twenty. What can I do? It seems to me a man needs a mother all his life. I don't feel much like a lord of creation. Having arrived at this cynicism, Segment 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 armchair, and felt sick. All his unnatural excitement, all the poetic stimulation of the past few days, had vanished. He felt flaccid, while his life struggled slowly through him. After an intoxication of passion and love and beauty, and of sunshine, he was prostrate. Like a plant that blossoms gorgeously and madly, he had wasted the tissue of his strength, so that now his life struggled in a clogged and broken channel. Segment sat with his head between his hands, leaning upon the table. He would have been stupidly quiescent, in his feeling of loathing and sickness, had not an intense irritability in all his nerves, tormented him into consciousness. I suppose this is the result of the sun, a sort of sunstroke, he said, realizing an intolerable stiffness of his brain, a stunned condition in his head. This is hideous, he said. His arms were quivering with intense irritation. He exerted all his will to stop them, and then the hot irritability commenced in his belly. Segment fidgeted in his chair, without changing his position. He had not the energy to get up and move about. He fidgeted like an insect pinned down. The door opened. He felt violently startled, yet there was no movement perceptible. Vera entered, ostensibly for an autograph album into which she was going to copy a drawing from the London opinion, really to see what her father was doing. He did not move a muscle. He only longed intensely for his daughter to go out of the room, so that he could let go. Vera went out of the drawing-room humming to herself. Apparently she had not even glanced at her father. In reality she had observed him closely. He is sitting with his head in his hands, she said to her mother. Beatrice replied, I'm glad he's nothing else to do. I should think he's pitying himself, said Vera. He's a good one at it, answered Beatrice. Gwen came forward and took hold of her mother's skirt, looking up anxiously. What is he doing, ma'am? she asked. Nothing, replied her mother, nothing, only sitting in the drawing-room. But what has he been doing? persisted the anxious child. Nothing, nothing that I can tell you. He's only spoiled all our lives. The little girl stood regarding her mother in the greatest distress and perplexity. But what will he do, ma'am? she asked. Nothing, don't bother, run away and play with margery now. Do you want a nice plum? She took a yellow plum from the table. Gwen accepted it without a word. She was too much perplexed. What do you say? asked her mother. Thank you, replied the child, turning away. Segment 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. Oh! this is horrible, he said. He stiffened his muscles to quieten them. I've never been like this before. What is the matter? he asked himself. But the question died out immediately. It seemed useless and sickening to try and answer it. He began to cast a bout for an alleviation. If he could only do something or have something he wanted, it would be better. What do I want? he asked himself, and he anxiously strove to find this out. Everything he suggested to himself made him sicken with weariness or distaste. The seaside, a foreign land, a fresh life that he had often dreamed of farming in Canada. I should be just the same there, he answered himself, just the same sickening feeling there that I want nothing. Helena, he suggested to himself, trembling. But he only felt a deeper horror. The thought of her made him shrink convulsively. I can't endure this, he said. If this is the case, I had better be dead. To have no want, no desire. That is death to begin with. He rested a while after this. The idea of death alone seemed entertaining. Then, is there really nothing I could turn to? he asked himself. To him, in that state of soul, it seemed there was not. Helena, he suggested again, appealingly testing himself. Oh, no! he cried, drawing sharply back, as from an approaching touch upon a raw place. He groaned slightly as he breathed, with a horrid weight of nausea. There was a fumbling upon the doorknob. Segment did not start. He merely pulled himself together. Gwen pushed open the door, and stood holding onto the doorknob, looking at him. Dad, Mom says, dinner's ready, she announced. Segment did not reply. The child waited at a loss for some moments, before she repeated in a hesitating tone. Dinner's ready. All right! said Segment, go away. The little girl returned to the kitchen, with tears in her eyes, very crestfallen. What did he say? asked Beatrice. He shouted at me, replied the little one, breaking into tears. Beatrice flushed. Tears came into her own eyes. She took the child in her arms, and pressed her to her, kissing her forehead. Did he? she said very tenderly. Never mind, then, dearie. Never mind. The tears in her mother's voice made the child sob bitterly. Vera and Marjorie sat silent at table. The steak and mashed potatoes steamed and grew cold. End of chapter 23. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 24 of The Trespasser. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Trespasser. By D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 24. When Helena arrived home on the Thursday evening, she found everything repulsive. All the odours of the sordid street through which she must pass hung about the pavement, having crept out in the heat. The house was bare and narrow. She remembered children sometimes to have brought her moths, shut up in matchboxes. As she knocked at the door, she felt like a numbed moth, which a boy is pushing off its leaf-rest into his box. The door was opened by her mother. She was a woman whose sunken mouth, ruddy cheeks, and quick brown eyes gave her the appearance of a bird which walks about pecking suddenly here and there. As Helena reluctantly entered, the mother drew herself up and immediately relaxed, seeming to peck forwards as she said, Well, here we are, replied the daughter in a matter-of-fact tone. Her mother was inclined to be affectionate, therefore she became proportionately cold. So I see, exclaimed Mrs. Verdon, tossing her head in a peculiar jocular manner. And what sort of a time have you had? Oh, very good, replied Helena, still more coolly. Mrs. Verdon looked keenly at her daughter. She recognized the peculiar, sulky, childish look she knew so well. Therefore, making an effort, she forbore to question. You look well, she said. Helena smiled ironically. And are you ready for your supper? She asked, in the playful affectionate manner she had assumed. If the supper is ready, I will have it, replied her daughter. Well, it's not ready. Her mother shut tight her sunken mouth and regarded her daughter with playful challenge. Because, she continued, I didn't know when you were coming. She gave a jerk with her arm, like an orator who utters the incontrovertible. But, she added, after a tedious, dramatic pause, I can soon have it ready. What will you have? The full list of your capacious larder, replied Helena. Mrs. Verdon looked at her again and hesitated. Will you have cocoa or lemonade? she asked, coming to the point curtly. Lemonade, said Helena. Presently Mr. Verdon entered, a small, white-bearded man with a gentle voice. Oh, so you are back, Nelly, he said in his quiet, reserved manner. As you see, Peter, she answered. Hmm! he murmured, and he moved about at his accounts. Neither of her parents dared to question Helena. They moved about her on tiptoe stealthily. Yet neither subserved her. Her father's quiet. Hmm! 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 pretense of eating. She was like a child which has done wrong, and will not be punished, but will be left with the humiliating smear of offence upon it. There was a quick light palpitating of the knocker. Mrs. Verdon went to the door. As she come, and there were hasty steps along the passage, Louisa entered. She flung herself upon Helena and kissed her. How long have you been in? she asked, in a voice trembling with affection. Ten minutes, replied Helena. Why didn't you send me the time of the train, so that I could come and meet you? Louisa reproached her. Why, drawed Helena? Louisa looked at her friend without speaking. She was deeply hurt by this sarcasm. As soon as possible Helena went upstairs. Louisa stayed with her that night. On the next day they were going to Cornwall together for their usual mid-summer holiday. They were to be accompanied by a third girl, a minor friend of Louisa, a slight acquaintance of Helena. During the night neither of the two friends slept much. Helena made confidences to Louisa, who brooded on these, on the romance and tragedy which enveloped the girl she loved so dearly. Meanwhile Helena's thoughts went round and round, tethered amid the five days by the sea, pulling forwards as far as the morrow's meeting with Segment, but reaching no further. Friday was an intolerable day of silence, broken by little tender advances and playful affection at Sally's on the part of the mother, all of which were rapidly repulsed. The father said nothing, and avoided his daughter with his eyes. In his humble reserve there was a dignity which made his disapproval far more difficult to bear than the repeated flagrant questionings of the mother's eyes. But the day wore on. Helena pretended to read and sat thinking. She played her violin a little, mechanically. She went out into the town and wandered about. At last the night fell. Well, said Helena to her mother, I suppose I'd better pack. Haven't you done it? cried Mrs. Verdon, exaggerating her surprise. You'll never have it done! I'd better help you. What times does the train go? Helena smiled. Ten minutes to ten. Her mother glanced at the clock. It was only half past eight. There was ample time for everything. Nevertheless you'd better look sharp, Mrs. Verdon said. Helena turned away, weary of this exaggeration. I'll come with you to the station, suggested Mrs. Verdon. I'll see the last of you. We shan't see much of you just now. Helena turned round in surprise. Oh, I wouldn't bother, she said, fearing to make her disapproval too evident. Yes, I will. I'll see you off. Mrs. Verdon's animation and indulgence were remarkable. Usually she was curt and undemonstrative. On occasions like these, however, when she was reminded of the ideal relations between mother and daughter, she played the part of the affectionate parent, much to the general distress. Helena lit a candle and went to her bedroom. She quickly packed her dress-basket. As she stood before the mirror to put on her hat, her eyes, gazing heavily, met her heavy eyes in the mirror. She glanced away swiftly, as if she had been burned. How stupid I look, she said to herself. And Siegmund, how is he, I wonder? She wondered how Siegmund had passed the day, what had happened to him, how he felt, how he looked. She thought of him protectively. Having strapped her basket, she carried it downstairs. Her mother was ready with a white lace scarf round her neck. After a short time, Louisa came in. She dropped her basket in the passage and then sank into a chair. I don't want to go, Nell, she said, after a few moments of silence. Why, how is that? asked Helena, not surprised, but condescending as to a child. Oh, I don't know. I'm tired, said the other petulantly. Of course you are. What do you expect after a day like this? said Helena. And rushing about, packing, exclaimed Mrs. Verdon, still in an exaggerated manner, this time scolding playfully. Oh, I don't know. I don't think I want to go, dear, repeated Louisa dejectedly. Well, it is time we set out, replied Helena, rising. Will you carry the basket or the violin, Mater? Louisa rose, and with a fullerne expression took up her light luggage. The west opposite the door was smoldering 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 tram-car 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 240 miles, 240 miles. End of Chapter 24 Chapter 25 In Hazelmere, Surrey, Chapter 25 of The Trespasser This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson The Trespasser by D. H. Lawrence Chapter 25 Siegmund passed the afternoon in a sort of stupor. At tea time, Beatrice, who had until then kept herself in restraint, gave way to an outburst of angry hysteria. When does your engagement at the comedy theatre commence? She had asked him coldly. He knew she was wondering about money. Tomorrow, if ever, he had answered. She was aware that he hated the work. For some reason or other, her anger flashed out like sudden lightning at his, if ever. What do you think you can do? she cried, for I think you have done enough. We can't do as we like altogether. Indeed, indeed we cannot. You have had your fling, haven't you? You have had your fling, and you want to keep on. But there's more than one person in the world. Remember that. But there are your children. Let me remind you, who's are they? You talk about shirking the engagement, but who is going to be responsible for your children, do you think? I said nothing about shirking the engagement, replied Siegmund, very coldly. No, there was no need to say. I know what it means. You sit there sulking all day. What do you think I do? I have to see to the children. I have to work and slave. I go on from day to day. I tell you, I'll stop. I tell you, I'll do as I like. I'll go as well. No, I wouldn't be such a coward. You know that. You know I wouldn't leave little children to the workhouse or anything. They're my children. They mightn't be yours. There is no need for this, said Siegmund contemptuously. The pressure in his temples was excruciating, and he felt loathsomely sick. Beatrice's dark eyes flashed with rage. Isn't there? she cried. Oh, isn't there? No, there is need for a great deal more. I don't know what you think I am. How much farther do you think you can go? No, you don't like reminding of us. You sit moping, sulking, because you have to come back to your own children. I wonder how much you think I shall stand. What do you think I am, to put up with it? What do you think I am? Am I a servant to eat out of your hand? Be quiet, shouted Siegmund. Don't I know what you are? Listen to yourself. Beatrice was suddenly silenced. It was the stillness of white hot wroth. Even Siegmund was glad to hear her voice again. She spoke low and trembling. You coward! You miserable coward! It is I, is it, who am wrong. It is I, who am to blame, is it? You miserable thing! I have no doubt you know what I am. Siegmund looked up at her as her words died off. She looked back at him with dark eyes loathing his cowed wretched animosity. His eyes were bloodshot and furtive. His mouth was drawn back in a half grin of hate and misery. She was goading him in his darkness, whether he had withdrawn himself like a sick dog, to die or recover as his strength should prove. She tortured him till his sickness was swallowed by anger, which glared redly at her as he pushed back his chair to rise. He trembled too much, however. His chin dropped again on his chest. Beatrice sat down in her place, hearing footsteps. She was shuddering slightly, and her eyes were fixed. Vera entered with the two children. All three immediately, as if they found themselves confronted by something threatening, stood arrested. Vera tackled the situation. Is the table ready to be cleared yet? She asked in an unpleasant tone. Her father's cup was half-emputed. 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. Ma'am, there was a lady had a dog, and it ran into a shop, and it licked a sheep, ma'am, what was hanging up. Beatrice sat fixed and paid not the slightest attention. The child looked up at her, waited, then continued softly. Ma'am, there was a lady had a dog. Don't bother," snapped Vera sharply. The child looked, wondering, and resentful at her sister. Vera was taking the things from the table, snatching them, and thrusting them on the tray. Gwen's eyes rested a moment or two on the bent head of her father. Then deliberately she turned again to her mother, and repeated in her softest and most persuasive tones. Ma'am, I saw a dog, and it ran in a butcher's shop, and licked a piece of meat. Ma'am, ma'am," there was no answer. Gwen went forward and put her hand on her mother's knee. Ma'am," she pleaded timidly. No response. Ma'am," she whispered. She was desperate. She stood on tip-toe, and pulled with little hands at her mother's breast. Ma'am," she whispered shrilly. Her mother, with an effort of self-denial, put off her investment of tragedy, and laying her arm round the child's shoulders, drew her close. Gwen was somewhat reassured, but not satisfied. With an earnest face upturned to the impassive countenance of her mother, she began to whisper, sibilant, coaxing, pleading, Ma'am," there was a lady. She had a dog. Vera turned sharply to stop this whispering, which was too much for her nerves, but the mother forestalled her. Taking the child in her arms, she averted her face, put her cheek against the baby cheek, and let the tears run freely. Gwen was too much distressed to cry. The tears gathered very slowly in her eyes, and fell without her having moved a muscle in her face. Vera remained in the scullery, weeping tears of rage and pity, and shame into the towel. The only sound in the room was the occasional sharp breathing of Beatrice. Segment sat without the trace of a movement, almost without breathing. His head was ducked low. He dared never lift it. He dared give no sign of his presence. Presently Beatrice put down the child, and went to join Vera in the scullery. There came the low sound of women's talking, an angry, ominous sound. Gwen followed her mother. A little voice could be heard cautiously asking, Ma'am, is Dad Cross? Is he? What did he do? Don't bother, snapped Vera. You are a little nuisance. Here, take this into the dining room, and don't drop it. The child did not obey. She stood looking from her mother to her sister. The latter pushed a dish into her hand. Go along, she said, gently thrusting the child forth. Gwen departed. She hesitated in the kitchen. Her father still remained unmoved. The child wished to go to him, to speak to him, but she was afraid. She crossed the kitchen slowly, hugging the dish. Then she came slowly back, hesitating. She sidled into the kitchen. She crept round the table, inch by inch, drawing nearer her father. At about a yard from the chair she stopped. He, from under his bent brows, could see her small feet in brown slippers nearly kicked through at the toes, waiting and moving nervously near him. He pulled himself together, as a man does, who watches the surgeon's lancet suspended over his wound. Would the child speak to him? Would she touch him with her small hands? He held his breath, and it seemed held his heart from beating. What he should do, he did not know. He waited in a daze of suspense. The child shifted from one foot to another. He could just see the edge of her white-friiled drawers. He wanted above all things to take her in his arms, to have something against which to hide his face. Yet he was afraid. Often, when all the world was hostile, he had found her full of love. He had hidden his face against her. She had gone to sleep in his arms. She had been like a piece of apple blossom in his arms. If she should come to him now, his heart halted again in suspense. He knew not what he would do. It would open perhaps the tumour of his sickness. He was quivering too fast with suspense to know what he feared, or wanted, or hoped. Gwen, called Vera, wondering why she did not return. Gwen. Yes, answered the child, and slowly Siegmund saw her feet lifted. Hesitate, move, then turn away. She had gone. His excitement sank rapidly, and the sickness returned stronger, more horrible, and wearying than ever. For a moment it was so bad that he was afraid of losing consciousness. He recovered slightly, pulled himself up, and went upstairs. His fists were tightly clenched. His fingers closed over his thumbs, which were pressed blood-less. He lay down on the bed. For two hours he lay in a dazed condition, resembling sleep. At the end of that time, the knowledge that he had to meet Helena was actively at work. An activity quite apart from his will or his consciousness, jogging and pulling him awake. At eight o'clock he sat up. A cramped pain in his thumbs made him wonder. He looked at them, and mechanically shut them again under his fingers into the position they sought after two hours of similar constraint. Siegmund opened his hands again, smiling. It is said to be the sign of a weak, deceitful character, he said to himself. His head was peculiarly numbed. At the back it felt heavy, as if weighted with lead. He could think only one detached sentence at intervals. Between wiles there was a blank gray sleep, or swoon. I have got to go and meet Helena at Wimbledon, he said to himself. And instantly he felt a peculiar joy, as if he had laughed somewhere. But I must be getting ready. I can't disappoint her, said Siegmund. The idea of Helena woke a craving for rest in him. If he should say to her, do not go away from me, come with me somewhere. Then he might lie down somewhere beside her, and she might put her hands on his head. If she could hold his head in her hands, for she had fine silk, and hands that adjusted themselves with a rare pressure wrapping his weakness up in life. Then his head would gradually grow healed, and he could rest. This was the one thing that remained for his restoration, that she should with long unwearying gentleness put him to rest. He longed for it utterly, for the hands and the restfulness of Helena. But it is no good, he said, staring like a drunken man from sleep. What time is it? It was ten minutes to nine. She would be in Wimbledon by ten ten. It was time he should be getting ready. Yet he remained sitting on the bed. I am forgetting again, he said. But I do not want to go. What is the good? I have only to tie a mask on for the meeting. It is too much. He waited and waited. His head dropped forward in a sort of sleep. Suddenly he started awake. The back of his head hurt severely. Goodness, he said, it is getting quite dark. It was twenty minutes to ten. He went bewildered into the bathroom to wash in cold water and bring back his senses. His hands were sore, and his face blazed with sun inflammation. He made himself neat as usual. It was ten minutes to ten. He would be very late. It was practically dark, though these bright days were endless. He wondered whether the children were in bed. It was too late, however, to wonder. Segment hurried downstairs and took his hat. He was walking down the path when the door was snatched open behind him, and Vera ran out, crying, Are you going out? Where are you going? Segment stood still and looked at her. She is frightened, he said to himself, smiling ironically. I am only going a walk. I have to go to Wimbledon. I shall not be very long. Wimbledon at this time, said Vera sharply, full of suspicion. Yes, I am late. I shall be back in an hour. He was sorry for her. She knew he gave her an honourable promise. You need not keep her sitting up, she said. He did not answer, but hurried to the station. End of Chapter 25. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere, Surrey. Chapter 26 of The Trespasser This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen The Trespasser by D.H. Lawrence Chapter 26 Helena, Louisa and Olive climbed the steps to go to the southwestern platform. They were laden with dress baskets, umbrellas and little packages. Olive and Louisa at least were in high spirits. Olive stopped before the indicator. The next train for Waterloo, she announced in her Contralto voice, is 1030. It is now 1012. We go by the 1040. It is a better train, said Helena. Olive turned to her with a heavy arch-mana. Very well, dear! There is a parting to be got through, I am told. We sympathise, dear, but we regret it. Starting for a holiday is always a prolonged agony. But I am strong to endure it. You look it! You look as if you could tackle a ball! cried Louisa, skittish. My dear Louisa! rang out Olive's Contralto. Don't judge me by appearances. You're sure to be taken in. With me it's a case of o' the gladness of her gladness when she's sad, and the sadness of her sadness when she's glad. She looked round to see the effect of this. Helena expected to say something chimed in sarcastically. They are nothing to her madness. When she's going for a holiday, dear, cried Olive. Don't go on being mad, cried Louisa. What do you like it? I thought you'd be thanking heaven that sanity was given me in large doses. And holidays in small, laughed Louisa. Good. No, I like your madness if you call it such. You are always so serious. It's ill talking of halters in the house of the hanged, dear. Boomed Olive. She looked from side to side. She felt triumphant. Helena smiled, acknowledging the sarcasm. But, said Louisa, smiling anxiously, I don't quite see it. What's the point? Well, to be explicit, dear, replied Olive. It is hardly safe to accuse me of sadness and seriousness in this trio. Louisa laughed and shook herself. Come to think of it, it isn't, she said. Helena sighed, and walked down the platform. Her heart was beating thickly. She could hardly breathe. The station lamps hung low, so they made a ceiling of heat and dusty light. She suffocated under them. For a moment she beat with hysteria, feeling as most of us feel when sick on a hot summer night, as if she must certainly go crazed, smothered under the grey woolly blanket of heat. Segment was late. It was already twenty-five minutes past ten. She went towards the booking office. At that moment Segment came on to the platform. Here I am, he said. Where is Louisa? Helen appointed to the seat without answering. She was looking at Segment. He was distracted by the excitement of the moment, so she could not read him. Olive is there too, she explained. Segment stood still, straining his eyes to see the two women seated amidst pale wicker dress-baskets and dark rugs. The stranger made things more complex. Does she, your other friend, does she know? he asked. She knows nothing, replied Helena in a low tone as she led him forward to be introduced. How do you do? replied Olive in most mellow contralto. Behold the dauntless three with their traps. You will see us forth on our perils. I will, since I may not do more, replied Segment, smiling, continuing, and how is sister Louisa? She is very well, thank you. It is her turn now, cried Louisa, vindictive triumphant. There was always a faint animosity in her bearing towards Segment. He understood and smiled at her enmity, for the two were really good friends. It is your turn now, he repeated, smiling, and he turned away. He and Helena walked down the platform. How did you find things at home? he asked her. Oh, as usual, she replied indifferently. And you? Just the same, he answered. He thought for a moment or two, then added, The children are happier without me. Oh, you mustn't say that kind of thing, protested Helena miserably. It's not true. It's all right, dear, he answered, so long as they are happy. It's all right. After a pause he added, But I feel pretty bad tonight. Helena's hand tightened on his arm. He had reached the end of the platform. There he stood, looking up the line which ran dark under a haze of lights. The high red signal lamps hung aloft in a scarlet swarm. Farther off, like spangles shaking downwards from a burst skyrocket, was a tangle of brilliant red and green signal lamps settling. A train with the warm flair on its thick column of smoke came thundering upon the lovers. Dazed, they felt the yellow bar of carriage windows brush in vibration across their faces. The ground and the air rocked. Then Siegmund turned his head to watch the red and the green lights in the rear of the train, swiftly dwindle on the darkness. Still watching the distance where the train had vanished, he said, Dear, I want you to promise that whatever happens to me you will go on. Remember to. Remember, dear, two wrongs don't make a right. Helena swiftly, with the movement of terror, faced him, looking into his eyes. But he was in the shadow she could not see him. The flat sound of his voice lacking resonance. The dead, expressionless tone made her lose her presence of mind. She stared at him blankly. What do you mean? What has happened? Something has happened to you. What has happened at home? What are you going to do? She said sharply. She palpitated with terror. For the first time she felt powerless. Siegmund was beyond her grasp. She was afraid of him. He had shaken away her hold over him. There's nothing fresh the matter at home. He replied wearily. He was to be scourged with emotion again. I swear it, he added, and I have not made up my mind, but I can't think of life without you. And life must go on. And I swear, she said wrothfully, turning at bay, that I won't live a day after you. Siegmund dropped his head. The dead spring of his emotion swelled up, scalding hot again. Then he said almost inaudibly, Oh, don't speak to me like that, dear. It is late to be angry. When I have seen your train out tonight, there is nothing left. Helena looked at him, dumb with dismay, stupid, angry. They became aware of the porters, shouting loudly that the Waterloo train was to leave from another platform. You'd better come, said Siegmund, and they hurried down towards Louisa and Olive. We've got to change platforms, cried Louisa, running forward and excitedly announcing the news. Yes, replied Helena, pale and impassive. Siegmund picked up the luggage. I say, cried Olive, rushing to catch Helena and Louisa by the arm. Look, look both of you. Look at that hat. A lady in front was wearing on her hat a wild and dishevelled array of peacock feathers. It's the sight of a lifetime. I wouldn't have you miss it, added Olive in horse Sotovoce. Indeed not, cried Helena, turning in wild exasperation to look. Get a good view of it, Olive. Let's have a good mental impression of it, one that will last. That's right, dear, said Olive, somewhat non-plussed by this outburst. Siegmund had escaped with the heaviest two bags. They could see him ahead climbing the steps. Olive readjusted herself from the wildly animated to the calmly ironical. After all, dear, she said, as they hurried in the tail of the crowd, it's not half a bad idea to get a man on the job. Louisa laughed aloud at this vulgar conception of Siegmund. Just now, at any rate, she rejoined. As they reached the platform, the train ran in before them. Helena watched anxiously for an empty carriage. There was not one. Perhaps it is as well, she thought. We needn't talk. There will be three-quarters of an hour at Waterloo. If we were alone, Olive would make Siegmund talk. She found a carriage with four people, and hastily took possession. Siegmund followed her with the bags. He swung these on the rack, and then quickly received the rugs, umbrellas, and packages from the other two. These he put on the seats or anywhere, while Helena stowed them. She was very busy for a moment or two. The racks were full. Other people entered. Their luggage was troublesome to bestow. When she turned round again, she found Louisa and Olive seated, but Siegmund was outside on the platform, and the door was closed. He saw her face move as if she would cry to him. She restrained herself, and immediately called. You are coming! Oh, you are coming to Waterloo! He shook his head. I cannot come, he said. She stood looking blankly at him for some moments, unable to reach the door because of the portmanteau thrust through with umbrellas and sticks, which stood on the floor between the knees of the passengers. She was helpless. Siegmund was repeating deliriously in his mind. Oh, go, go, go! When will she go? He could not bear her piteousness. Her presence made him feel insane. Would you like to come to the window? a man asked of Helena kindly. She smiled suddenly in his direction without perceiving him. He pulled the portmanteau under his legs, and Helena edged past. She stood by the door, leaning forward with some of her old protective grace, her hawa-spirit evident. Benign and shielding, she bent forward, looking at Siegmund. But her face was blank with helplessness, with misery of helplessness. She stood looking at Siegmund, saying nothing. His forehead was scorched and swollen, she noticed sorrowfully. And beneath one eye the skin was blistered. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed in a kind of apathy. They filled her with terror. He looked up at her because she wished it. For himself he could not see her. He could only recoil from her. All he wished was to hide himself in the dark alone. Yet she wanted him. And so far he yielded. But to go to Waterloo he could not yield. The people in the carriage, made uneasy by this strange farewell, did not speak. There were a few taut moments of silence. No one seems to have strength to interrupt these spaces of irresolute anguish. Finally the guard's whistle went. Siegmund and Helena clasped hands. A warm flush of love and healthy grief came over Siegmund for the last time. The train began to move, drawing Helena's hand from his. Monday, she whispered, Monday. Meaning that on Monday she should receive a letter from him. He nodded, turned, hesitated, looked at her, turned and walked away. She remained at the window, watching him depart. Now, dear, we are manless, said Olive in a whisper. But her attempt at a joke fell dead. Everybody was silent and uneasy. End of chapter 26 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey