The Trespasser

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. Whose 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 wrath.

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 whither he had

withdrawn himself like a sick dog, to die or recover as his strength

should prove. She tortured him till his sickness was swallowed by anger,

which glared redly at her as he pushed back his chair to rise. He

trembled too much, however. His chin dropped again on his chest.

Beatrice sat down in her place, hearing footsteps. She was shuddering

slightly, and her eyes were fixed.