The Trespasser

All his unnatural excitement, all the poetic stimulation of the past few

days, had vanished. He felt flaccid, while his life struggled slowly

through him. After an intoxication of passion and love, and beauty, and

of sunshine, he was prostrate. Like a plant that blossoms gorgeously and

madly, he had wasted the tissue of his strength, so that now his life

struggled in a clogged and broken channel.

Siegmund sat with his head between his hands, leaning upon the table. He

would have been stupidly quiescent in his feeling of loathing and

sickness had not an intense irritability in all his nerves tormented him

into consciousness.

'I suppose this is the result of the sun--a sort of sunstroke,' he said,

realizing an intolerable stiffness of his brain, a stunned condition

in his head.

'This is hideous!' he said. His arms were quivering with intense

irritation. He exerted all his will to stop them, and then the hot

irritability commenced in his belly. Siegmund fidgeted in his chair

without changing his position. He had not the energy to get up and move

about. He fidgeted like an insect pinned down.

The door opened. He felt violently startled; yet there was no movement

perceptible. Vera entered, ostensibly for an autograph-album into which

she was going to copy a drawing from the _London Opinion_, really to see

what her father was doing. He did not move a muscle. He only longed

intensely for his daughter to go out of the room, so that he could let

go. Vera went out of the drawing-room humming to herself. Apparently she

had not even glanced at her father. In reality, she had observed

him closely.

'He is sitting with his head in his hands,' she said to her mother.

Beatrice replied: 'I'm glad he's nothing else to do.' 'I should think he's pitying himself,' said Vera.

'He's a good one at it,' answered Beatrice.

Gwen came forward and took hold of her mother's skirt, looking up

anxiously.

'What is he doing, Mam?' she asked.

'Nothing,' replied her mother--'nothing; only sitting in the

drawing-room.' 'But what has he _been_ doing?' persisted the anxious child.

'Nothing--nothing that I can tell _you_. He's only spoilt all our

lives.' The little girl stood regarding her mother In the greatest distress and

perplexity.

'But what will he do, Mam?' she asked.

'Nothing. Don't bother. Run and play with Marjory now. Do you want a

nice plum?' She took a yellow plum from the table. Gwen accepted it without a word.

She was too much perplexed.

'What do you say?' asked her mother.