The Trespasser

There was a quick, light palpitating of the knocker. Mrs Verden went to

the door.

'Has she come?' And there were hasty steps along the passage. Louisa entered. She flung

herself upon Helena and kissed her.

'How long have you been in?' she asked, in a voice trembling with

affection.

'Ten minutes,' replied Helena.

'Why didn't you send me the time of the train, so that I could come and

meet you?' Louisa reproached her.

'Why?' drawled Helena.

Louisa looked at her friend without speaking. She was deeply hurt by

this sarcasm.

As soon as possible Helena went upstairs. Louisa stayed with her that

night. On the next day they were going to Cornwall together for their

usual midsummer holiday. They were to be accompanied by a third girl--a

minor friend of Louisa, a slight acquaintance of Helena.

During the night neither of the two friends slept much. Helena made

confidences to Louisa, who brooded on these, on the romance and tragedy

which enveloped the girl she loved so dearly. Meanwhile, Helena's

thoughts went round and round, tethered amid the five days by the sea,

pulling forwards as far as the morrow's meeting with Siegmund, but

reaching no further.

Friday was an intolerable day of silence, broken by little tender

advances and playful, affectionate sallies on the part of the mother,

all of which were rapidly repulsed. The father said nothing, and avoided

his daughter with his eyes. In his humble reserve there was a dignity

which made his disapproval far more difficult to bear than the repeated

flagrant questionings of the mother's eyes. But the day wore on. Helena

pretended to read, and sat thinking. She played her violin a little,

mechanically. She went out into the town, and wandered about.

At last the night fell.

'Well,' said Helena to her mother, 'I suppose I'd better pack.' 'Haven't you done it?' cried Mrs Verden, exaggerating her surprise.

'You'll never have it done. I'd better help you. What times does the

train go?' Helena smiled.

'Ten minutes to ten.' Her mother glanced at the clock. It was only half-past eight. There was

ample time for everything.

'Nevertheless, you'd better look sharp,' Mrs Verden said.

Helena turned away, weary of this exaggeration.

'I'll come with you to the station,' suggested Mrs Verden. 'I'll see the

last of you. We shan't see much of you just now.' Helena turned round in surprise.

'Oh, I wouldn't bother,' she said, fearing to make her disapproval too

evident.

'Yes--I will--I'll see you off.' Mrs Verden's animation and indulgence were remarkable. Usually she was

curt and undemonstrative. On occasions like these, however, when she was

reminded of the ideal relations between mother and daughter, she played

the part of the affectionate parent, much to the general distress.